


Selwyn Hall

by uchiha_s



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Historical AU with Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-08-18 19:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/pseuds/uchiha_s
Summary: The infamous Lord Riddle is tricked into taking on orphan Hermione Granger as his apprentice at Selwyn Hall.--It was all too easy to picture balancing scales in her mind—her morals versus her ambitions. It seemed her ambitions were heavier, were worth more—in her mind, the scale holding her ambitions thunked downward."It doesn't matter to me. Apprenticeships are only a few years—""—Only a few years of working under a known master of the Dark Arts—""—You suggested this!" Hermione exploded in a hiss. Remus sighed."Yes, but it comes with a cost, Miss Granger." His eyes searched hers. "Is it one you're willing to pay?""I'll pay anything."





	1. Part One

The sky was aflame with dawn when Hermione burst through the wooden kitchen door and out into the snowy morning air, the rolling moors before her blanketed with mist, the winter roses silvered with frost. Leaves crunched underfoot as her thin-soled shoes slapped against the stone. The old rusted hinges of the garden door shrieked; the wood banged against stone, and she panted as she ran, and then—

" _Hermione!_ "

The powerful voice that she loved so well, strangled with anguish, echoed through the morning—but she did not turn back. She felt the thin cool fingers of truly powerful magic reach for her, and without looking back she cast them off from her. To her the magic’s threat was no longer in its strength but in its familiarity.

“You cannot leave,” he insisted, the echoes of his words scattering across the moors around her, as though the world were laughing at her now, a cruel audience to her pain.

She knew the risks, knew the cost—it was the greatest cost, perhaps, but it would not stop her. From the beginning she had known she would be prepared to pay whatever the price.

She could not turn back now—she would not lose her nerve.

**_Two Years Ago_ **

"You must admit she's not like other girls. She hasn’t the same path ahead of her."

Remus' soft voice was barely audible and Hermione had to strain to hear. Pressed up against the heavy wooden door, she eavesdropped on the discussion of what was to be done about her future. She had no betrothed waiting for her as was usual and proper for the few, rare young women graduating from Hogwarts.

"She will not be marrying, no," conceded Severus Snape evenly. "But who would wed her? There is no proof of her stock. She doesn't even come from a rich _Muggle_ family, let alone a Wizarding one. Be that as it may, she is hardly my responsibility."

"It isn't a matter of responsibility, Severus. I've not seen talent like that in all of my years of teaching—"

"—All five of them, yes." Hermione could easily picture Snape's lip curling as he spoke.

"We cannot simply let such talent go to waste. It's— it's unethical," Remus insisted.

"Even you are not _nearly_ so foolish as to bring this up without some sort of plan," said Snape now. She pictured him settling back, his black eyes betraying his inherent mix of superiority and insecurity. "So what is it, then? What is your plan?"

"…It’s Riddle."

There was a choking, sputtering sound; something in between a callous, disgusted laugh and a noise of disbelief.

"I never knew you to have such a sense of humor, Lupin.”

"He sent a letter some years ago—"

"I hardly venture to think that when he wrote, ‘talented apprentice,’ he really meant, ‘drowned rat of a mudblood.’"

"The letter _specifically stated_ that he would be open to receiving an apprentice of _extraordinary talent_. At the time, we had no one who would have fit, but Miss Granger is the brightest witch of her age—"

"Even if she is the so-called brightest witch of her age, she is a witch—a _girl_. Riddle is rather famously no one’s fool—do you forget whose gold upholds Hogwarts, Lupin? We cannot send off a girl to one of our current benefactors. It would be poor business. And that does not even cover the matter of her blood status, which—"

"We'll bring it up to Dumbledore." The desperation of Remus' voice told Hermione that this was his trump card—his only one. She held her breath, afraid that the sound of her own breathing might obscure Snape's acquiescence—or his refusal.

" _We_ will do no such thing," said Snape comfortably. She heard the scrape of a chair. "And now you have overstayed your welcome, Lupin. You may leave."

"We are equals, Severus. I merely brought this up to you as a matter of courtesy—but I see you will not be budged on the matter. I'll bring it up to Dumbledore myself."

Hermione scrambled away from the door on light feet and ducked into the darkness of the corridor, her heavy skirts rustling with the movement. Remus' tall but slouching figure appeared in silhouette as he turned to her, his young face prematurely lined with weariness. Hermione opened her mouth to speak but he jerked his head sharply and walked past her, placing a warm, sure hand at the small of her back and leading her away from Snape's rooms at top speed. Her skin prickled with awareness of his touch, and his breathing grew shallow with longing, but neither acknowledged it.

When at last they were a safe distance from Snape and alone in a dark, stray corridor, Remus took his hand from her back and turned to face her.

"We already knew we were swimming upstream," he finally said in a low voice, shaking his head.

"Who is this Riddle?" Hermione asked curiously. She pictured an old man in lush robes surrounded by endless stacks of gleaming gold Galleons, perhaps living in a large, sprawling home in London. Remus grimaced.

"If he weren't your _only_ chance, I would have chosen someone else for you. Anyone else, really," he confided. He turned his dark sad eyes on Hermione now, and her stomach turned. She knew that look. "Are you quite sure about this, Miss Granger?" His voice softened. "You could be quite happy, marrying—"

"I could not." Her voice was too hard and she let out a huff, feeling guilty. She knew that Professor Lupin—or rather, Remus, though she dared not refer to him as such publicly, even here, alone—only wanted the best for her. Out of anyone at Hogwarts, he understood her best. He was trying to help her, not trying to keep her powerless, as others were.

"He's not a good man, Miss Granger." Remus' voice was barely audible. "The gold he gives us to keep Hogwarts running is little better than blood money. No—it _is_ blood money."

It was all too easy to picture balancing scales in her mind—her morals versus her ambitions. It seemed her ambitions were heavier, were worth more—in her mind, the scale holding her ambitions thunked downward.

"It doesn't matter to me. Apprenticeships are only a few years—"

"—Only a few years of working under a known master of the Dark Arts—"

"— _You_ suggested this!" Hermione exploded in a hiss. Remus sighed.

"Yes, but it comes with a cost, Miss Granger." His eyes searched hers. "I suggested this because I _know_ and _understand_ how much your magic means to you, but it comes with a cost. Is it one you're willing to pay?"

"I'll pay anything."

***

Remus walked towards Dumbledore's rooms with unusual purpose and confidence in his stride. He rounded the corner, and Severus Snape, standing before the entrance to Dumbledore's rooms, came into view.

"You will _not_ —" Severus began icily, but before Remus could retaliate, the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's rooms moved to the side, revealing two tall figures and thus silencing both men.

Dumbledore was tall and ancient, with long silver hair hanging to his waist, garbed in robes almost the same silver as his hair.

Next to him stood a tall man—taller even than he—and far younger, perhaps thirty or thirty-five, with dark hair and dark, handsome eyes glimmering with cleverness set into a face so pale, angular, and ethereal that he might have been carved from marble and set to glow within a cathedral. His dark robes, though simple, were finely made and fashionably cut. He came from money, it seemed: everything from the gleam of health in his hair to the shine in his boots bespoke wealth. His smooth, pale lips twitched with something like amusement as he met Remus’ eyes. Remus felt a jolt of inferiority.

"Two professors, out and about, not teaching classes? It seems the education has grown quite lax, Dumbledore." The man's voice was clear and cold as he quipped, arching his brows, his eyes never leaving Remus’. Snape was not capable of blushing, it seemed, but Remus felt his own face grow warm.

"I suppose it has," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling with humor. "And these are two of my finest professors, too. This is Severus Snape, whom I believe you have met—" Dumbledore gestured to Snape, who gave a short, stiff motion something in between a nod and a bow, "and Remus Lupin."

Remus considered himself modern and as such stepped forward to shake the man's hand—but the man made no move to do any such thing. Instead, hands clasped behind his back, he looked down upon Remus with ill-concealed amusement and disdain. Remus let his hand fall, feeling all the more foolish.

"I hear you go by Voldemort these days, but to old professors like me you'll always be young Tom Riddle. Funny how stubborn we can be," Dumbledore mused. Remus' breath caught in his throat as he witnessed hatred bloom in the man's eyes before it was hastily buried. Riddle’s pale lips curved into a smirk.

"Perhaps it's your mind going, old man," said Riddle smoothly. "Not what it used to be, perhaps?”

"Perhaps," conceded Dumbledore lightly, as though Riddle hadn't just broadly insulted one of the most powerful wizards in the world. "I did just have a birthday, you know."

"You get one every year," quipped Riddle, his tone not quite as light as Dumbledore's. His expression hardened. "Where is this apprentice? I've not got all day."

"Time is money, so they say," agreed Dumbledore, nodding for them to walk with him. Riddle scoffed.

"Money is meaningless, old man. I thought you _at least_ knew that."

For once united in their abject horror, Remus and Severus walked behind the two men and glanced between each other.

So _this_ was the infamous Lord Riddle.

"Perhaps to _you_ it is, Tom, but to us, money is quite meaningful."

"Are you asking for more funds? Do so directly; your obtuseness bores me. Not that I'll give it to you. I've taken on some new projects that direct my money elsewhere—and if this apprentice truly is worthwhile, I'll have to fund him as well."

Once again Severus and Remus glanced at each other, their minds each snagging on a particular word. _Him_?

So, Dumbledore hadn’t told Riddle yet.

Remus wished, quite powerfully, in that moment for telepathy.

He would have loved to be able to ask Miss Granger to at least, for _once,_ comb her wild hair.

They approached Gryffindor Tower, though Professor McGonagall approached them now, heading them off. She met Riddle’s gaze coolly. Remus supposed these two knew each other somehow, but how McGonagall, a practical witch from modest—at best—circumstances could know this man, he could not fathom.

“Apologies, Professor Dumbledore, but I’ve just checked the dormitories—the apprentice is out on a venture to Hogsmeade to purchase supplies for the apprenticeship.”

Remus felt Snape glance meaningfully at him, and his own gaze bored into Dumbledore’s back. _Well-played, Dumbledore._

“Ah, thank you, Minerva,” Dumbledore said graciously, and he turned to Riddle now. “Unfortunately, it seems you’ll have to wait and have your new apprentice delivered to you.”

Riddle hardly looked fooled. He arched his brows and looked at Snape and Remus.

“Well, clearly old Dumbledore’s got something to hide,” he surmised, looking heavily at them both. Even Snape looked uncomfortable under the man’s piercing dark gaze. “But I suppose I’ll find out eventually. I can hardly wait—if you’re lucky, old man, the suspense just might kill me.”

***

Hermione was walking along the desolate grounds, hunting for a particular plant that only unfurled its remarkable gold leaves in twilight, when she heard leaves and grass crunching underfoot behind her. She looked up and saw Remus striding towards her, and she felt a quiver of anticipation in her belly, not _solely_ borne of fear of the result of his discussion with Dumbledore.

“Well, Dumbledore came up with a plan at the very last minute,” he said by way of greeting, and he exhaled as he reached her, his breath clouding in the air. The walk from the castle to here had breathed some life into his pale, drawn features, and for a moment he actually looked his own age. The loveliness of his soul was more apparent now, in the depth of his intelligent brown eyes and the gentleness of his brow. She sometimes wildly thought if she did not kiss him, she might simply die. _No, that is foolish,_ she told herself in such moments, “Not guaranteed to work, but it’ll at least get you to Riddle’s door, which is further than you would have made it if he knew…”

“…That I’m an orphan girl?” Hermione prompted hastily, stepping forward. Remus’ brow furrowed and he looked at her with such misery and sympathy that it left her breathless.

“That you’re a _Muggle-born_ orphan girl, Hermione.”

His words hardly surprised her. She watched Remus’ mouth twist into a wry smile. “Sorry, that was inappropriate,” he added softly, looking down. It took her a moment to realize he was referring to the fact that he had called her by her first name.

“There’s no one to hear,” she muttered, gesturing to the sprawling empty fog-laden grounds surrounding them. “So what will happen when he learns the truth?”

“I haven’t any idea,” he confessed, raking a hand through his light hair and looking past her shoulder at the lake. “It will not be good, I can assure you that. Your only hope is to impress him immediately. He’s no fool—if he can see your abilities, he will forget everything else, I guarantee you that much. Your brilliance will be so much more interesting to him than your blood status, though that is certainly something he’s known to prize. It will be interesting to see what matters to him more…”

“I’ll impress him,” she resolved. “When do I leave?”

Remus looked away. Her gaze fell upon his jawline, the jawline she had recently come to love.

“Tomorrow,” he said hoarsely.

***

An hour later, Hermione, with her hair brushed and pulled back in a bun, still wearing her mud-soaked dress, and running late, hastened along to the Great Hall.

The few students that were dining this late sat at the long tables designated for the students; Dumbledore, Snape, Remus sat at the high table, bathed in candlelight, the castle's best silver gleaming even in the meager light. Hermione prepared to take her usual seat at one of the tables, but Dumbledore summoned her to them.

Remus felt Snape trod on his foot.

"She looks like a pauper,” the black-haired man hissed.

"She _is_ a pauper."

"Riddle took his leave—urgent business called him back to Selwyn Hall, his estate," explained Snape as Hermione arrived at the high table. Flushed and out of breath, she glanced at Remus, then at Dumbledore. He was looking like he was trying very hard to keep something amusing to himself. "And this meant he left without a key piece of information," added Snape in a strained voice, scowling at Dumbledore, who was innocently tapping his fingers together.

"He's actually taking me on as an apprentice?" Hermione knew intuitively to play dumb—there was assuredly some sort of impropriety to Remus having already confronted her about this matter privately.

And then…there had been something even more improper about the look in his eyes and the break of his voice when he’d said, _tomorrow._ Her heart swelled and she took her seat mechanically, feeling her eyes burn. The walk back to the castle had been silent, the misty air thick with all of the things they could not say.

"He thinks you are a man, so, yes, he is—for now. And Professor Dumbledore here has as of yet not corrected him," said Snape, barely keeping his rage tamped down as his nostrils flared, "and our school's greatest benefactor will most likely be _quite_ displeased when a _mudblood girl_ shows up on his doorstep!"

"Severus," said Remus sharply. Unfortunately, the idea of the word 'mudblood' as offensive was a far more modern notion that had only breached the castle walls with Dumbledore and Remus—the rest of the school was stuck in a different time, perhaps even as far back as when halfbloods and mudbloods were considered subhuman, when kings burned witches at the stake. Hermione instinctively recoiled at the injustice of it but she said nothing; she knew it would be foolish to speak now; foolishness that could cost her the only chance she had at actually learning any real magic. She held her tongue, waiting for the unpredictable next move of Dumbledore. His eyes twinkled merrily.

"You must be hungry, Miss Granger—I see you spent all day outside," he observed, nodding to her muddy skirts. Hermione took her seat at the high table, in the place this Lord Riddle would have sat.

"You depart tomorrow at dawn. We have arranged for a carriage," said Snape tightly, apparently too angry to eat.

Hermione's plate filled with rich food and her goblet filled with pumpkin juice. She longed to scurry away to the library, for she had so many questions… Selwyn Hall... The name was an old Wizarding name, which meant that this Riddle was of thoroughly Pureblood stock...though his name was not Selwyn, interestingly. Though her determination was powerful, her stomach did flip at the idea of appearing at the estate, not nearly what Riddle was expecting... She could withstand confrontations when necessary but that did not mean she relished them…

"He demanded only the most promising, most brilliant student." Remus' voice lilted over the sound of silverware clinking as they ate in otherwise silence. "We unilaterally agreed it to be you."

Hermione said nothing; she ate to hide how she beamed. And then—her heart swelled and broke in one moment— _tomorrow…_

"And yet—" Snape began, but faltered.

"Riddle may surprise you yet, Severus," said Dumbledore gently. He winked at Hermione. She heard Snape scoff.

"I know him quite well, Dumbledore—better than you. He is not a man who appreciates dishonesty or trickery from those with whom he associates, and we are dependent upon his gold."

"I have told no lies," said Dumbledore innocently. Snape snorted into his potatoes.

"I do not see how you can be so calm about this." He glanced at Hermione with disgust.

"How do you know him, Professor?" Hermione piped up, eager to end the discussion. It was doing nothing for her courage, which flickered like a dying candle. Snape almost seemed more surprised than angry that she had dared to speak.

"Professor Snape assisted him in a number of his discoveries...both publishable and un-publishable," added Remus pointedly. Snape was indifferent to Remus' implied accusations.

"We attended Hogwarts at the same time, and continued to interact professionally prior to my accepting a teaching position here," dismissed Snape. "Eat your food and ask no more insolent questions."

"Severus—" chided Remus ineffectually. Hermione was hungry enough to do as told... for now. Snape was hardly a man to be pushed and when pushed he usually only provided more sourness anyway. She ate in silence and thought of Riddle and Selwyn Hall. She pictured a grand, old-fashioned estate, everything gilded, though she was certain that Selwyn was a Slytherin family name, in which case everything would likely be draped in green velvet and edged in silver. Perhaps it was situated in London, nestled in Hyde Park—or perhaps on the outskirts...

And if Snape and Riddle had attended school together, that made him far younger than she had anticipated—for although Snape looked much older, rumors and gossip placed him at about thirty-five to forty.

Something about that notion sent a jolt of nervousness through her belly. The image of a corpulent old man, the buttons of his robes straining and sweat beading at his receding hairline with the effort of living, was cracked. Something about that seemed easier to her than a younger man. 

She was dismissed after she had eaten a sufficient portion of her meal. Instead of returning to her own room, however, she went to one of the classrooms, where she attempted to use magic to fashion new dresses for herself. In the dungeon classroom, she stood in her underclothes and worked from a book on sewing spells.

Hermione stared at her reflection in the mirror, a plain girl garbed in dresses each more plain than the one before it, with high collars, minimal details, and full, modest skirts, all in black, grey, and muted, somber blues. In the mirror she saw Professor McGonagall—her idol—step into the room, also plainly dressed. Professor McGonagall was the only female professor at Hogwarts and had never married. In her, Hermione supposed— _hoped_ —she was seeing her future self.

"Professor Lupin said you would be leaving in the morning," she said by way of greeting, clearing her throat. She was not a sentimental woman. "I have some books you will be needing."

"Oh, Professor," sighed Hermione, turning to face the woman and hearing pins and needles drop on the flagstone floor. She felt her eyes burning with tears.

"No need to grow emotional, Miss Granger," quipped McGonagall. "Riddle will be an excellent tutor. His skillset is _beyond_ well-rounded."

There was a tone in her voice that meant something. Hermione peered at her curiously.

"So he _does_ dabble in the Dark Arts," she confirmed. McGonagall arched her brows and snorted.

"That is not the biggest challenge that you face, Miss Granger," she said plainly. Hermione stepped down from the stool and hugged the fabric to her form, embarrassed to be in such a state around someone she held in such high regard.

McGonagall stared at her, then looked away, shaking her head. She set the books down on a low stool and began sorting through them. "This text on Transfiguration is somewhat outdated, but—"

"What is my biggest challenge?" She was loath to interrupt McGonagall but she couldn't bear her curiosity any longer. McGonagall straightened, adjusting her spectacles. She cast a few wards about the room.

When she looked back at Hermione, it was with such a brutal hardness that Hermione braced herself to hear something that she would not like.

"Miss Granger, there is a very good reason that Hogwarts typically avoids mixed-sex apprenticeships."

Hermione balked.

"That will hardly be an issue for me—"

"For you, of course, it will not be a matter at all. You are a sensible person and I trust your judgment. …But men are not so strong-willed or sensible as women." The slanderous phrase was magically contained in the walls but it was no less shocking, however much Hermione agreed. "There may come a point where you will be forced to make some difficult decisions about your education and how to proceed—or whether to proceed at all.”

The two women gazed at each other.

"You're not suggesting—"

"Of course not," she snapped. "You must respect yourself above all else, never forget that. But it comes at a cost."

She thought of Remus' words from before. She thought of her reply.

_I'll pay anything._

It was no less true now than it had been hours before. McGonagall looked away now, straightening her spectacles. Hermione blinked rapidly.

“I trust myself to protect myself and respect myself,” she said now. “But I cannot pass on such a chance just because there _might_ potentially be some sort of romantic matter,” she sputtered, her face reddening. 

“I would hardly call the matter _romantic_ ,” McGonagall said dryly.

“Is it true that Riddle practices the Dark Arts?” Hermione pressed. McGonagall pondered for a moment.

“There have been rumors,” she admitted now, straightforward as ever. “But there have also been such rumors about Professor Snape, yet Professor Dumbledore insists he trusts him with his life.”

“Have you ever met Lord Riddle?”

“I saw him, once, at a ball nearly twenty years ago,” said McGonagall, narrowing her eyes as she recalled the event. “He was a very young man, then. Perhaps no more than fifteen. At the time he was quite unforgettable for many reasons, but it’s been such a long time—I cannot know what sort of man he is now.” 

They stood in silence, each woman attempting to suppress her emotions.

“You have been the person upon whom I model myself,” Hermione said now, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You have been my idol and you will always be.”

McGonagall retrieved a tartan handkerchief from thin air and dabbed her eyes, turning away from her.

“Really, Miss Granger, you’re hardly traveling abroad. There’s no need to be so sentimental,” she reproved, her slim back straight, though Hermione knew the older woman did not mean it.

After some time, McGonagall took her leave, and Hermione faintly heard the woman let out a single sob as she escaped into the corridor.

With tears streaming down her own face, Hermione mechanically went through the motions of sewing a garment with magic, watching as she was transformed from an unruly but free girl to a modest and severe woman before her own eyes.


	2. Part Two

**_Present Day_ **

Her legs burned. Her lungs screamed. She could have Apparated, but to where? She sprinted to the cliffs, feeling the wet spray of the ocean on her face. Hermione turned round to see just how little distance she had put between herself and Selwyn—and now she stood precisely in the place where it had all begun, where her carriage had nearly toppled over into the sea. She wanted to laugh, were her lungs not so empty and raked through.

If she had known then what she knew now, would she have stayed?

…Would she have even _stopped_ the carriage from toppling over into the sea?

There was no time for such thoughts. Hermione rooted along the ground for sticks and, with a few spells, Transfigured a small rowboat. The effort of such a trick nearly killed her. Her magic was seeping away...

She would have to travel by sea; she would be found on land far too easily. She hovered the little boat down the hillside, closer to the shoreline, and picked her way through the slippery rocks. She dropped the boat into the black water and was nearly thrown to the rocks by the splash. She clumsily scampered along and fell into the rocking boat; she distantly heard _his_ voice scream her name. With shaking, soaking wet hands, she cast a weak Disillusionment spell, and she faded into the sea.

The boat rocked with the waves as she ventured further into the sea; she watched those dark cliff faces, and saw _his_ figure appear atop them, his cloak whipping behind him.

“Hermione!” he called, one last time, his voice carrying on the wind.

She turned away, her tears mixing with the sea spray on her cheeks. He knew she was there, even if he could not see her, but she could not—no, _would not_ —call back to him.

_You must respect yourself above all else, never forget that. But it comes at a cost._

_**Two Years Ago** _

Dawn broke.

Hermione had determined how to perform an Undetectable Extension charm, and now proudly carried her entire library of books that she was allowed to take with her. Clad in one of the modest grey dresses that she had taken all night to sew, with a heavy, plain black cloak on top and her normally wild hair pulled back into a severe bun, she towed her belongings—mostly books—to the entrance of the Great Hall.

Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Dumbledore were there to see her off. Snape had begged off, insisting that he did not want to continue to be part of this 'charade.' She had overheard the argument, loud as it was, earlier between the professors.

A black carriage, pulled by thestrals, waited for her by the doors to the Great Hall.

"The journey to Selwyn Hall will be long. There is food in the carriage for when you become hungry. You won't arrive until nightfall," explained McGonagall, pragmatic as always. Her spectacles fogged in the morning air as Hermione realized she was growing emotional. The older woman stepped aside, and Hermione fought the urge to embrace her. It would have displeased McGonagall to have her emotions acknowledged in such a way. 

"Have you brought enough books?" twinkled Dumbledore, nodding to her bags which bulged in spite of the extension charm. Hermione beamed at him, then watched as he guided McGonagall back into the castle rather tactfully, leaving Hermione alone in the dawn with Remus. She could not help but balk at this—if he really understood the nature of her feelings for Remus, it was so improper to leave her alone with him…

But Remus stood before her now, a head taller than she, and though his face was young, it was lined prematurely, and his brown hair was streaked with grey before his age warranted it. She knew why he was so aged, so worn and grey, and she loved him for it; she had once read that pity was the heart of love and she knew such words to hold truth.

He was the man who had argued for her position here at Hogwarts—he had advocated for her through everything. She owed so much to him, and though her considerable pride insisted that she take ownership for her own accomplishments, her own self awareness, also considerable, told her that she should be thankful for and humbled by this man's help. In spite of his own burden under which he was cursed to suffer he had given her everything in her life that she now had and loved—including himself. 

Their eyes met. Oh, but she loved him. 

"You must write," blustered Remus now, struggling with his own emotions. "You must write every single day—Selwyn Hall is so old; there will be so much incredible history to it, so many secrets in its walls. And you must describe Riddle and all of your adventures to me, because the castle will be so boring..."

_...Without you..._ were the words left unsaid.

They stood there, the nature of their relationship pendulous.

Remus had been like a father, then like a brother, to her. And had she been any other girl, it would have been so _easy,_ so  _natural,_ for their relationship to evolve once more, into something  _more,_ now that she was marriageable, now that he was a bachelor, though he was twenty years older than she. The notion that this option existed, however, held little weight. She had no true sense if he returned her affections, and moreover, to marry him would be to sacrifice her independence. 

_But would it be so horrible...?_

She would now turn away from that option, perhaps forever.

It seemed, at the moment, unbearable. He was perfect: he was kind, he was bright, he was loving, he was unselfish. He was patient. He was gentle. 

"You have been everything to me," she confessed.

"Well, now, someone else will be everything to you. I must admit, I'm jealous of Riddle—teaching someone brilliant as you is a pleasure," he said softly.

Perhaps there was some weakness in her too, because at his words, something in her ribcage—perhaps her heart—twinged with a singular kind of pain. _Would it be so horrible,_ she wondered, a worn path in her own mind she had traced so often she knew it at each beat of her heart, _to sacrifice myself for such a worthy man?_

Could it not, possibly, be worth sacrificing her independence to then know what his hands felt like upon her bare skin, to feel his hold on her tighten in the night, to guard him from himself and his curse at every full moon?

They gazed hungrily at each other for a moment longer, each memorizing the other's face. Remus’ head began to incline toward hers, and hope swelled within her.

Then, Hermione turned away. She could not say why she did it.

She entered the carriage alone. She heard Remus shut the door behind her, ensconcing her in the darkness of the carriage, and then he uttered a sharp, practiced command to the thestrals—and then the lake and trees were blurring past her, and she was leaving forever.

***

Hours went by. Hermione wished to read, but the ride was too bumpy, no matter how many spells she attempted to hold her books steady. She hated to simply be alone with her thoughts and fears, boxed into this stuffy carriage, jostled along. She watched the countryside fly by intently; as they traveled south, where winter was not so close, the autumn colours grew more vibrant, those last ecstatic shouts of crimson and orange set aglow by sunlight. They rode along roads lined with ancient crumbling stone walls, under trees that were so red they appeared to be aflame, through tumbling, tangled moor, through flat, tidy forest. But they weren't heading towards London, she was certain of it—if they were, they would have used the main roads.

The flaming sun descended and cast the countryside in stark relief. Everything turned silvered lavender, and even in her carriage Hermione became cold. The countryside grew more wild and ragged, and soon that crumbling stone wall that they had been following disappeared completely. Hermione ate some of the food that had been provided, but her stomach was too unsettled to make much progress.

Hours later, near dusk, they came upon rolling moor.

In the distance, on the crest of the moors, she spotted a lone figure of a tall, lean man, silhouetted in the growing darkness, and her heart shuddered. There was something  _wrong_ about him.

They were traveling toward him, she realized. Were they on the Selwyn Hall property yet? Was this silhouette a servant, come to greet her? It seemed an odd place to meet them. Distantly she could hear the crash of waves, but she couldn't see the sea anywhere.

And then, as they approached the man and were mere meters from him—she saw nothing clearly of him but a flash of dark hair—it all happened quite fast.

There was an explosion of sod and grass; the thestrals whined like horses and the carriage was sent flying as flames erupted to the sky. Hermione screamed and grappled for her wand as the carriage rolled and tumbled along the hillside; she cast a panicked spell to stop its rocking, and it abruptly came to a halt. She was thrown to the side of the carriage, which now was facing the ground. The contents of her trunks were scattered everywhere.

Panting and gasping, she rose on shaking legs and smacked the side of the carriage—which now faced the sky—and banged the door open. She stared at it, now able to hear the sound of the waves quite clearly, and able to see the night sky, slowly becoming dotted with stars. Just as she wondered how in Merlin's name she was going to get out, a man's face blocked her view of the sky.

He was uncommonly handsome—for a moment she thought she might be hallucinating—with skin pale as alabaster and hair and eyes dark as ebony, though she was certain, somehow, that he was not the man she had seen earlier.

"The Hogwarts Crest on the carriage—where's my apprentice?" the man demanded. Hermione's stomach dropped.

This was Lord Riddle.

It had to be.

But she had imagined their meeting, and her consequent explanation, to be a little less chaotic than this. She had imagined stepping out of the carriage, garbed in her plain but new clothes, in a stately and refined manner. She had not imagined appearing at the bottom of a carriage, mussed and bruised and dripping blood. She smiled weakly up at him.

"Right here," she confessed. "I stopped the carriage but I'm not sure I can get out." She paused, her eyes meeting his. "Who was that man—"

" _You're_ the apprentice. Really." He swore an oath she'd not heard before though she was clever enough to interpret the meaning, and her cheeks flushed. "No wonder that stupid old man looked so amused." She guessed he meant Dumbledore and she gasped at how he spoke of Dumbledore. His face disappeared from view as she heard him jump off the carriage.

Fearful that he wasn't going to help her, she mentally scanned through all of the spells she knew, and then braced herself as she cast one to hopefully roll the carriage once forward.

There was more force than she'd expected, and she was pitched forward. She smacked into the door and felt something hot trickle down her forehead. Dazed and in pain, she stumbled out of the carriage on weak legs to find Riddle standing before her, looking shocked, silhouetted by brilliant flames, and she heard the roar of the sea behind her. She looked back over her shoulder.

The carriage sat pendulously on a cliff overlooking the sea.

One more roll and she would have fallen in.

The impact of the carriage against the rocks would have likely killed her. There was no sign of the thestrals.

"Who was that man?" she asked again, looking back to Riddle, her heart racing. "There was a man who caused some sort of explosion—"

"There was no man," said Riddle, as he approached her. "You stopped the carriage by yourself—so you're not _entirely_ useless." He studied her as she studied him, too in shock to bother herself with manners. Absently she cast a complicated dousing spell and Riddle glanced back at the now-doused flames in further surprise.

He was tall—taller than even Dumbledore, perhaps—and wearing a fashionably-cut, well-made coat with both Muggle and Wizarding elements of style. He had a tall, elegant physique and shrewd dark eyes and pale lips, his jawline and cheekbones almost too sharp. Out here in the dark smudged landscape, he looked like a rare jewel among weeds.

Just beyond him there was a gash in the ground—remnants of the explosion. He led a gleaming black horse, which stood calmly—too calmly—behind him.

"There was a man," she pressed on, "standing on the hill, and he—"

"You have traveled a long way and hit your head," he said now, as he swung himself up onto his horse with ease. "I will send for a servant to fetch you. Please stay there."

"So you'll accept me as—" but her words died on the wind as she watched his horse set easily into a gallop over the hill. She gathered her skirts and trotted towards the crest to watch, and there, on the next hill in the distance, Selwyn Hall rose up like a fortress before her.

Riddle, on his black horse, his traveling cloak cast out behind him, moved like a ghost along the landscape.

***

Having gingerly gathered her things and done her best to mend the gash in her forehead, Hermione stared out at the thrashing sea. It was quite late now—it had to be at least eight o’clock. She at last heard the _clop clop_ of horses and turned round to see a hunched, stout cloaked figure on a muddy brown horse, holding an enchanted lantern and guiding another silvery-grey horse towards her. The man’s hand was revealed as he held the lantern up, slowing to come to rest before her. The hand gleamed in the spare moonlight—it looked to be made of some kind of metal but moved fluidly, liquidly. Her stomach turned at the sight even as some sort of thrill raced in her blood.

Only dark magic could create something like that.

“Can you ride a horse?” he rasped with little authority. In the dim light she could see he had a mousy, whiskered face, partially obscured by the hood of his cloak. He seemed a timid and pathetic sort of man, in stark contrast to Riddle.

“Y-yes,” she said, unsettled by the metallic hand, though a deeper part of her deeply admired the powerful magic undoubtedly behind it. He waited, making impatient noises, as she slung her bags upon the spare horse’s saddle and unsteadily clambered onto it. The horse was docile enough, and soon they were moving at a canter towards Selwyn. “Has Riddle accepted me as his apprentice?” she called above the winds as they rode. The man rode ahead of her and said nothing.

She thought of Remus, of McGonagall, of her four-poster bed in her own room in the castle. She reflected on all that she had left behind. And, as they reached Selwyn, she wondered at what she was possibly taking on, and whether she was prepared for it.

Selwyn Hall was certainly old—perhaps from the time of kings. Its stone facade overlooked a sparse lawn, its pointed arches spiked upward into the night sky. Beyond the right side, she could see what once must have been a fine garden, which rolled towards the sea. On the manor’s left, there lay tangled woods, already barren of leaves.

Though intimidating, there was an ancient, thrilling beauty to it. Hermione’s horse slowed to a trot as the man led them around the right side, through the remains of the gardens. The autumn’s last roses dotted the masses of thorns and leaves among the gravel paths. They wended through the gardens and eventually came to a side door. From inside, jewel-like light cast squares of gold onto the dusky path. Finally—a sign of warmth, of life!

“Go there. Lady Lestrange will be waiting for you.”

Hermione slid off the horse, grasping her things, and watched the stout man lead both horses away, presumably to stables around the back. She thought the name ‘Lestrange’ sounded quite elegant—she must be the head of the house, she surmised. She imagined an elderly, stately housekeeper with a dainty lace cap.

Hermione opened the door into a low-ceilinged, packed kitchen, which smelled strongly of magical herbs. There was no one in the kitchen, though pots on top of the stoves bubbled away merrily, and there was a roaring fire in the hearth. Feeling the first tinge of relief, Hermione set her bags down.

“Hello?” she called out.

House Elves appeared with resounding cracks and clamored towards her, but a shadowed figure appeared across the kitchen and they were immediately silenced against their own will.

She was voluptuous and slightly plump in a sensuous way, with wild black hair hanging down her back, and heavily-lidded eyes lined with kohl, and a rebellious dusting of freckles along the bridge of her nose. Her gown, though black, was made with high-quality satin and lace, and did far more for her figure than Hermione’s did for hers. They clearly viewed clothing as having very, very different purposes. “Are you Lady Lestrange?” The woman took a few steps into the room, her skirts swishing sensuously, as she regarded Hermione like she was a horse for sale and likely not worth its price.

“I am,” she said now, her voice like a blade. “I will show you to your room.”

Only somewhat put off by Lady Lestrange’s lack of manners—she had spent the better part of ten years in Snape’s acquaintance, of course; she was rather accustomed to poor affect—Hermione gathered up her things and followed the woman.

***

That night, she lay in her bed, listening to the night sounds of Selwyn Hall. Try as she might, she could think of little else but the man’s silhouette atop the hill.

_Riddle must be hiding something,_ she decided. There was no doubt in her mind that she had seen a man, and that that man had caused the explosion. Who _was_ he, and why had he caused such a thing? It hadn’t been Riddle—the man had been slightly shorter, he hadn’t been garbed in fine clothes; he had lacked that self-possession that Riddle had. There had been something wild and unsteady about that silhouette.

And why was Riddle denying it? Why had Riddle refused to even  _listen_ to her?

She rose from her bed and went to the desk below the window. She was cold—the manor was even colder than Hogwarts—but she was too determined to care. She lit her wandtip and sat at her desk, and retrieved parchment and a quill.

A strange, alien thought occurred to her—what if her letters were read before being posted with the manor owl? She had never had to concern herself with such a thought before. But if Riddle truly were involved with the Dark Arts…

_I’ll send the owl tonight. It won’t take all night to fly back to Hogwarts,_ she reasoned. _They won’t even know it was gone._

She began to write with fervor.

_Dear Professor Lupin—_

_I have arrived at Selwyn, though not altogether safely._

Hesitating on how best to explain the evening, she dove into a quick, factual account of it. At the end, she added a note:

_So far, Riddle has not turned me away. I suppose we shall see what tomorrow morning holds…_

_Love,_

_Hermione Granger_

She folded up the parchment and tucked it in her dressing gown. Her stomach growled—Lady Lestrange had not offered her any food, and she’d not eaten anything aside from the small meal on the road.

Perhaps she could have a small meal while she was at it.

On stockinged feet, Hermione left her room, her wandtip lit, as she padded along as silently as possible. The corridors were narrow and cold, and lined with faded, nameless portraits.

Was it quite wrong to write “love” at the end of her letter? It had seemed natural at the time, and as she recalled how she and Remus had gazed at each other before she had gotten into the fateful carriage, it felt right. But it was empty—no promise could be built on it; it spoiled a thing of innocence, didn’t it?

Conflicted, she reached the bottom of one of the stairwells. She had no idea where they might store their owl. If she received a stipend, perhaps she would purchase her own, though she dreaded asking such a question, after Riddle had more or less been made a fool by Dumbledore.

The kitchen was bereft of House Elves. Moonlight streamed in through the low windows, casting long, deep shadows. Her best guess was that the owls were kept in the stables. She went to the door from which she had entered hours earlier, and her hand lingered on the door’s handle for a moment before, decisively, she pushed it.

Once upon a time, years ago, she had received a lecture from Professor McGonagall for her behavior. She was too independent, she trod on people’s feelings too much. She couldn’t simply do as she pleased, McGonagall had explained; she had to learn to _think_ of how her actions were perceived.

She entered the night air, which froze her very bones. She could taste the salt of the sea on the air and the wind whipped her flimsy dressing gown about her frame as she picked her way through the stones towards the stables.

She thought of that same lecture now. McGonagall had told her that she had been called ‘meddlesome’ and ‘entitled’ by someone...she knew that someone to be Professor Snape. The lecture stuck out to her now because, at the time, she had almost agreed with the accusations—but she had not found them to be problematic.

She was certainly being meddlesome and entitled now.

She had learned to use her own resources to get by in this world. She had learned to do what she found to be right, to act and bear the consequences. Often she turned out to be right, anyway. Sneaking out in the dead of night to use the house’s owl to send a letter—particularly when she might not even be here by the time the owl returned—might seem presumptuous but such an accusation meant nothing to her in the face of being able to achieve what was needed. She didn’t need to appear a gentlewoman; she did not need anyone to like her, least of all a man.

_But is it prudent to risk offending the man who now holds your future in the palm of his hand? a_  tiny voice in her mind queried. She let out a huff, the breath clouding in the air, as she reached the stables at last, her skirts and dressing gown sodden at the hem with dew and frost. She thought once more of that mysterious man on the hillside, and the flames that had so rocked the carriage—the incident had almost killed her.

Prudence was not the point, she decided, throwing open the door. There was something off about that man and she would find out what it was and, moreover, who _he_ was. She would not be stopped.

She never had been before. She thought of Remus, thought of his smooth lips, and pushed the thought down.

She found the owls. She tied her letter to the talon of a handsome tawny one and watched it flap off into the night, and for a moment took comfort in picturing Remus’ hands untying the parchment, smoothing it out, and the furrow that would appear between his brows as he read her letter.

She left the warm comfort of the stable, and ventured back into the night. From this angle she looked at the back of Selwyn Hall, her brown eyes roving over its many windows and wings.

At the very top of the manor, barely visible in the night air, which would soon grow grey and purple with dawn, candlelight flickered in the window.

There, at the very highest window: a face.

And then it was gone.

She let out a shuddering breath as the hairs on the back of her neck tingled. It was likely one of the house’s many inhabitants—after all, Riddle employed a full staff—but there had been something so very eerie about it. And after all, who would live in such an attic room, anyway? Could it be Lady Lestrange?

But never mind that—now she had the concern that she had been seen.

_I’ll just explain that I suffer from occasional sleeplessness and like to walk at night…_ she decided, wiping her now clammy palms on her dressing gown. She hastened back to the kitchen and opened and closed the door as silently as possible. She held her breath, ears pricked, listening for any other night walkers, but she heard nothing. Satisfied that she was safe, she tiptoed back towards the staircase, and hurried back to her room.

She never saw the dark shadow standing in the doorway, watching her movements.

 


	3. Part Three

_**Present Day** _

She lay in the bottom of the Transfigured rowboat, letting the sea toss her about, staring up at bleached clouds. She knew she didn't have time to grieve, but she wasn't ready to face reality yet. For a brief time she allowed herself to close her eyes and dream of simpler times, of times that might have been, though she could not wholly immerse herself in these illusions. She had never been given to daydreaming or wishing.

The sky grew darker and Hermione at long last sat up slowly, feeling the boat churn with the tide. Selwyn Hall's shores were not so far; she cast a spell with great effort, and the boat began to move against the tide, began to move north.

And _he_ still stood on the cliff face, his cloak flapping; she could see his elegant hands moving in the air as he attempted to locate her magically. But her wards were too strong, even with her newfound weakness—he'd taught her too well—and she was too far from him now. Empty within, she let the rowboat carry her further north, and watched as he disappeared from view—he was Apparating somewhere, though where, she could not say. Perhaps he imagined she would go to Hogwarts, though there was no reason for her to go there now. There was no one left alive there who could or would help her.

It was aching hours of agony within her spirit, and well past nightfall, nearing dawn, before she reached a safe shoreline. Black rocks jutted up out of the spray, leading to a sharp drop. Above it the grass mingled with snow. The blue fire she'd conjured did her little help and her teeth chattered but she hardly could notice. In desperation, she jetted the boat towards the shoreline and stumbled out of it, falling onto the rocks.

Shaking and frozen to her bones, and leaden with sorrow, she raised her head, searching deep within herself for the strength to go on. Above her stood a tall but hunched figure, his black robes thrown this way and that by the high November winds, his black hair nearly obscuring his face.

It was Severus Snape.

They gazed at each other, neither moving, before Hermione grit her teeth and pushed herself onward, climbing up the rocks. She heard a crash behind her—a wave hit her boat and demolished it, flinging pieces of Transfigured wood and scattering them among the rocks. She could have easily rebuilt the boat but it seemed symbolic...

...There was no turning back now.

When she looked back, she saw Snape's pale hand outstretched before her, silently offering her aid. She hesitated, then at last took it, her hands slippery from the saltwater. With surprising strength, he hauled her onto the grass, and she fell to her knees, shocked by how weak the journey had made her. Hermione rose to her feet on shaking legs and turned to face Severus, soaking wet, her hair in her face, and her eyes rimmed red with sadness. She couldn't stop shaking, and the world began to spin.

"I must..." she began, but then everything faded to black. 

**_Two Years Ago_ **

Hermione struggled to fall back to sleep. When she awoke, it was to incessant scratching at her window. It was just after dawn—she had only slept a few hours. The excitement of the day had worn off, leaving her body pulsing and aching all over from being thrown about the carriage. With a soft gasp of pain she sat up, to find a tawny owl pecking at her window, a response tied to its talons. 

_Remus._

Delightedly, Hermione forgot her pain and stumbled out of bed to let in the owl.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_That is very strange indeed. Are you certain you were not mistaken? After all, you had been traveling for most of the day…_

Hermione scowled as her delight abruptly receded. Surely Remus did not think her a blithering fool?

She knew what she had seen. 

_However, I would not put it past Riddle to house other practitioners of the Dark Arts in Selwyn Hall. He is adept at connecting with others of his type and already possesses many connections. It is possible that you merely encountered a more wild consort of his…_

_Please be careful at Selwyn, though I am certain you will be too occupied to be bothered with caution. I think of you constantly. The castle feels empty without your brilliance to light it up. I am a very lonely teacher now, I must admit._

_Love,_

_Remus_

She sank to the floor, her hands trembling at the familiarity of his signature. She pressed the letter to her breast, thinking of his brown eyes, which only held warmth and love for her, and felt her eyes burn. 

He'd written  _love._ He had signed it only his first name. What had she done, in turning away from what might have been? 

All the same, she had made her decision. And she was no fool—she knew this letter could not be kept. It contained a serious accusation. She grappled for her wand and set the parchment alight, glumly watching it burn to nothing.

And yet—just before the flames closed around _‘Love, Remus_ ’ she put out the fire and hid the ashen remains of the parchment bearing his love in a book. Her secret, she thought, closing the heavy tome with tender hands and wet eyes. 

“UP!”

Hermione gasped as her heart startled at the hammering on the door. “Lord Voldemort demands your presence,” came Lady Lestrange’s voice through the door. “Dress yourself and come to the front hall promptly.”

_Lord Voldemort?_

There was something about that name that sickened her.

Hermione dressed in one of her plain dresses and smoothed her hair. She did not bother with kohl or rouge or perfume like other ladies, not merely out of pragmatism but also out of a care for what Professor McGonagall had implied, and so, once dressed, she left her room, fisting her hands to hide their shaking, and wandered through Selwyn Hall on the search for the front hall, bearing a candle to guide her way. Though it was day, no daylight shone through the heavy emerald velvet drapes. It might as well have been the middle of the night.

The darkened halls were lined with ancient, peeling, cracked portraits, and as her candlelight cast them each in points of gold as she passed, she thought of the eerie face she'd spotted in the window last night. 

_Who lives there?_

But she had little time to ponder the subject, because she could hear loud voices now, and realized she was close to the front hall.

The front hall, which faced south, was no brighter than the corridors. It had massive pointed-arch windows that were blocked with heavy velvet drapes, the lighting so dim it was impossible to determine their color, though she would have bet her wand that they were emerald, too. The ceiling was high enough that she had to crane her neck to look, and the walls were lined with shelves and shelves of titleless leather-bound books and sheathed scrolls.

Near the hidden windows sat a large piano, dwarfed by an elaborate candelabra; and a very tall object hidden by long black velvet drapes, though a golden clawed foot was visible where the drapes did not quite reach. _It must be some sort of mirror,_ she deduced, studying the clawed foot. In another corner was an expansive desk, which she assumed was where Riddle—or, rather, Lord Voldemort—conducted his business.

But he was nowhere to be found. Instead, Lady Lestrange was arguing with a short, plump woman who reminded Hermione of a bullfrog both in stature and temperament.

“There it is,” said Lady Lestrange in distaste. The way the other woman looked at her, it seemed this was perhaps the one place where she and Lady Lestrange might be coerced to agree. Not one to be cowed by such circumstances, Hermione straightened her back and smiled at the two women.

“Lord Voldemort will receive you shortly. Touch nothing,” said Lady Lestrange silkily, before the two women exited.

Hermione stood in the center of the enormous room. She had come from the staircase above, and had been so intent on being timely that she hadn’t noticed the shelves lining the second story of this room as well.

It had been decorated quite recently, compared to the rest of the manor. Given some sunlight and dusting, it would be quite a fashionable and attractive room. Hermione was just pondering the urge to sweep open the drapes when boots clicked along the flagstone. 

It was Riddle, clad in elegant navy robes. He irritably flicked his wand, and the candelabra was set alight as he bypassed her and took a seat at his desk.

“So you can stop carriages from rolling off a cliff but you can’t light a few candles? I suppose Hogwarts’ focus has indeed changed,” he observed, not looking at her as he swiftly opened a scroll lined with numbers. Hermione went to stand before his desk.

“Lady Lestrange said I should touch nothing,” said Hermione now. Riddle glanced up at her, his dark brows quirked in amusement.

“I believe it is not necessarily your style to follow orders, if what I’ve heard is correct.”

“Your information may be faulty. You didn’t know I was a girl,” she pointed out, then, in a moment of clenching horror, wondered if she ought to regret her tongue.

But Riddle snorted.

“Knowledge is power. I had an inkling you were not the strapping young Pureblood lad that Dumbledore implied you to be long before your carriage even left Hogwarts.”

“You seemed rather surprised to me.”

“I expected a pureblood, at the _very_ least,” he shot back as he signed the parchment then set it aside. He settled back in his chair and regarded her with some interest. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead and her fingers itched with the absurd urge to brush it aside.

He was young. Barely thirty, or at least, he looked it. He was studying her and she felt his gaze as prying and as invasive as if he were trailing his fingertips over her. She was not sure if she liked it or not. “You’re very clearly not of Wizarding lineage; I can tell simply by looking at you. Your clothes are quite plain and poorly-made. You haven’t got the Malfoy blond hair, or the Black freckles or mouth, or the Greengrass face...I could go on but I presume you see my point.” He sighed. “It is one thing to be deceived about your sex. That alone would be an offense but, indeed, a surmountable one. Your blood status…” he trailed off, gazing at her, “...is another matter entirely.”

It took a moment to imagine a response to that. He was so animated; there was cleverness in the lilt of his voice, in the arch of his brows, in the lines of his jaw. She could not take her eyes off of him. She had never seen a man quite so lovely. His beauty was enough to make a less logical woman believe in a divine creator.

There was a sly knowingness in his eyes then. He _knew_ she was admiring his beauty, had anticipated it, more likely. By the cut of his coat and the wave in his impossibly dark hair she knew he employed his handsomeness to its full advantage.

A surprising spike of dislike burst her admiration—she despised vanity and would not respect it.

“Is it so unforgivable?” she asked after a moment, hating how high and shrill her voice became. Horror was coursing through her. Without this, she had nothing...nothing but Remus, and though her heart ached for him, her heart ached for herself, too; her heart ached for the independence, the agency, she was on the precipice of losing. “Am I to be your apprentice or not?”

“So demanding, for someone so lowly,” Riddle observed softly, his eyes roving over her. “You amuse me. You will stay.”

She could think of nothing to say. She stared at him in shock and relief, waiting, but he simply stared back at her, his gaze piercing her. She had the horrible sensation that he had seen her innermost self, but she told herself it was entirely nonsense—unless there was a spell to read minds... “Interesting,” he said after a moment. He resumed examining the scrolls. “I have business to attend to in London today; you will begin your training tomorrow. You are dismissed.”

Hermione uncomfortably turned to go. As she neared the arch, Riddle’s voice floated after her. “Oh, and next time, use a different owl. The tawny one is _mine_.”

_**Present Day** _

Hermione woke to some potion being brought to her lips; she was under heavy blankets and the air was thick with the scent of rare herbs.

"Drink." Through bleary eyes, Hermione saw Severus, more haunted and gaunt than she had ever seen him. She did as told, recognizing the scent of the smoking potion to be the Pepper Up Potion, and at once felt more alive. When she sat up, she saw she was still wearing her dress and stockings, though her shoes had been removed. 

"How long have I been out?" 

Severus turned away and went to the cauldron at the center of the room.

"Perhaps an hour. Not very long. Your body is weak and possibly ill. There seems to have been an enchantment on the bounds of Selwyn Hall, preventing you from leaving. Bursting through it nearly killed you." Severus remained turned away from her as he spoke.

She had known—from the strange force she had felt for the past two years each time she came near the borders of the estate, to the weakness that had nearly overpowered her as she sat in the rowboat... Of course,  _he_ would have thought ahead, would have planned... He had never learned to trust, had he?

"Has he come looking for me?"

"No, but it's only a matter of time," said Severus as he began pacing. "I've heavily warded this home but it will not hold for very long against _him_."

Hermione waited for him to order her to leave. It would be the wisest action on his part, if he had any sense of self-preservation at all. "We will need to develop a plan of action quite quickly," he continued, almost more to himself than to her. "Hogwarts Castle is not safe. He will look for you there. My home not safe—he does not know that I reside at this address but it will not take him long to learn, given how extensive his network of informants has grown."

Wrecked upon the rocks, soaking and near-death, she had not had chance to ponder the serendipity of coming upon Severus, but now it struck her.

"You magically lured me here," she breathed. "You must have your own network of informants at Selwyn," she concluded, attempting to stand. "Who? Who would take such a risk? All of the mail is intercepted--"

"Miss Granger, we run short of time," interrupted Severus. "We must act now. Gather your things. We will retreat to another hiding place. I cannot tell you here."

  _ **Two Years Ago**_

The pale face she had seen last night must have been Riddle's—she could not quite bring herself to call him Voldemort—then, for he had clearly been watching her, had clearly watched her steal his owl. Hermione hastened away from the front hall, her face flushed with embarrassment.

She found herself in a back corridor of the house. The narrow windows faced the inner garden, which held a frozen fountain and tangled remains of a garden within it. She could have sworn this hall was colder than the outdoors, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she walked along the windows, gazing at the courtyard outside.

This meant she had a whole day to become acclimated with her new home, to explore. But how much of Selwyn Hall was off limits to her? She recalled Remus' words, that the manor must hold so much history, so many secrets, and she was eager to dive in, but it seemed there must be eyes everywhere, watching her every move...

And why had Riddle chosen to take her on as an apprentice? What had made him do so, in spite of his quibbles of her blood status?

_And why am I not more upset by his words?_

She set her jaw.

_I knew what my independence was worth; I knew I would be willing to pay any price for it. If this is the price, then so be it._

Hermione went to her rooms and fetched some parchment and a quill, as well as a shawl, and then hastened to the stables where the owls were kept, keeping Riddle's request in mind, as she debated on what to write Remus.

She stood in the stables. There were a number of owls, and the tawny one was missing. Hermione frowned and knelt against the wall, watching the horses fidget and listening to them whicker.

 _Dear Remus_ ,

She blushed at her informality—but had he not signed the letter that way?

What was she doing, if not continuing a false promise? Nothing could come of such familiarity or tenderness, for she had chosen this path… But if she did one day meet him again… She closed her eyes, thinking once more of how his head had bent towards hers just the prior dawn, how close he had been, how his lips had almost claimed hers… Her heart was burning inside of her; why could she not have that kiss  _and_ have her freedom, her magic? 

Why must she choose, when no man had ever had to make such a choice?

_Riddle seems to have accepted me as his apprentice. I begin my work tomorrow. I'm ever so nervous. I do not know what has made him choose to accept me. I suppose Dumbledore was right about him after all._

A moment's hesitation, and then...

_I miss the castle very much already._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

Before she lost her nerve, Hermione tied the parchment to a plain-looking barn owl's talon and watched it swoop off towards Hogwarts. She let out a sigh.

What, exactly, was she doing?

Choosing to not think of it—really, there were hardly consequences for calling an old friend by his first name, particularly when she had no idea of when she might see him again—she returned to the Hall's main building. She was quite hungry, and uncertain of the expectations surrounding mealtimes here.

As she walked back towards the manor, she looked up at the window she had seen the face in just hours before. It was dark now, with no signs of life. It must be Riddle's room, there was no better explanation, and yet it left her feeling nettled all the same.

The kitchen was packed with House Elves when Hermione entered, and she was promptly shooed away by them, with the explanation that breakfast would be served at nine o'clock in the nearest dining room.

Hermione wandered the corridors, hoping to grow acquainted with the manor's floorplan. It was an enormous, sprawling place—already large, it had been magically expanded in a number of places. The very air tingled with powerful magic that she supposed must be Riddle's, and the sense of it invaded her like prying fingers tugging at her dress, pulling at her hair.

Along the corridors, doors were not only shut, but locked too. Hermione resisted the urge to try different doors, and returned to her room, intent on reviewing her notes from her various courses to prepare for tomorrow. She knew nothing of apprenticeship and had no one knowledgeable to ask on such a subject. 

Her room faced the front of the manor, which faced south, and her desk was placed under the large windows. She sat at her desk and was about to read when noise caught her attention. She stood up and watched from the window as Riddle, on his magnificent black horse, garbed in a finely-made black traveling cloak, galloped toward the roads.

As he crested the hill, his horse reared, and he was momentarily silhouetted against the grey sky. Then he disappeared into fog, and she rested her chin in hand, thoughts of Remus once more banished as she pondered Riddle.

***

There was a knock at her door, disturbing her revision of her studies.

"Y-yes?" Hermione slid away from her desk and the door opened, revealing the toad-faced woman from before. She took up the entire breadth of the doorway, though she was barely taller than she was wide. 

"My name is Lady Umbridge; you must be Lord Voldemort's new apprentice," she greeted, her voice unexpectedly girlish and sweet. She proffered a dainty curtsy, and Hermione balked before getting from her chair and returning the unexpected gesture. This woman had been rude to her before, and she found it unlikely that she had merely misread this woman—she would have to remember not to trust her.

"My name is Hermione Granger, ma'am," she said now, straightening. "I'm glad you've come by; I was wondering about the--"

"—I am here to instill within you the rules of Selwyn Hall," interrupted Lady Umbridge as she retrieved a long scroll from her apron pocket and flung it open. She made a little noise, as though clearing her throat, though it sounded quite false. Hermione pressed her lips together to stop herself from talking over Umbridge. "Rule number one: the apprentice shall not use any resources of his lordship, including but not limited to: fowl for letters, horses for riding, House Elves for personal errands and tasks, and books, parchment, and quills."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but was silenced by Umbridge's strange little cough. "Rule number two: the apprentice is to make himself available for lessons and work between dawn and midnight." She glanced at Hermione as though she expected complaint, but this was one rule that would not trouble Hermione. She gave Umbridge a saccharine smile. "Rule number three," began Umbridge crisply, "the apprentice shall not, under any circumstances, exchange communication with anyone not currently residing at Selwyn Hall."

She could only consider this a gross overreaction to her letter to Remus. Hermione wondered if it had been intercepted. She thought of the scrap remaining from Remus' last letter, which contained his love. It was shut in the book on the desk behind her, and Hermione keenly felt its contraband presence as though it were flames teasing her back.

"Any other rules?" she asked now. Umbridge gave a silvery little laugh.

"Rule number four: the apprentice shall not take leave of Selwyn Hall for the duration of the apprenticeship under any circumstance, save for personal errands set by his lordship."

She would effectively be cut off from the world for  _years._  

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, but she did not speak, for what could she possibly say to such a rule? "Rule number five: the apprentice shall consent to all tasks set by his lordship, without argument or contradiction."

Set by any other person this would likely be a reasonable rule, but Hermione could not forget what Remus had said about Riddle's history with the Dark Arts. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

If she chose to walk from this—an option that she suspected was not actually viable at this point—then she had nothing else. She would not be allowed to stay at Hogwarts. She would either have to find non-magic work in London, or find someone to marry her. She thought yet again of the clandestine scrap of parchment hidden in her book.

She could be Remus' wife, if that scrap of parchment contained his true heart. She'd live with him at Hogwarts, but would not possess the certification to actively practice magic. She would bear his children and raise them.

Her very blood turned to ice at the thought.

No magic, no control, just children and housework. No time for books, for learning, no say over funds or budget. And this was assuming Remus would even have her as a wife, which was certainly not a given.

And she could not— _would not—_ give up magic.

It was this or nothing.

...Perhaps she could negotiate more favorable terms once she proved herself to Riddle.

"Are there any other rules?" Hermione asked now. Umbridge let out another cough and retriever a second scroll of parchment.

"I will let you read through these yourself," she said sweetly, as the scroll unfurled...and unfurled...and unfurled...along the floor. Hermione bit her lip to hide her surprise, and returned Umbridge's sweet smile.

"Thank you, that looks manageable," she said just as sweetly, reaching for the scroll. "When is breakfast?"

Umbridge feigned a look of surprise.

"Well, it's whenever you like, of course. Though I must point out that, as per the rules, you may not make use of our food stock or House Elves." At that she turned and left a shocked Hermione before a chance of retaliation.

*******

The scroll of rules seemed endless. She would not interact with anyone. She would not leave the manor. She would have to somehow come up with her own food, books, supplies, and anything else she should want or need. She would not disagree with Riddle, or turn down any request. She would receive approximately five hours of sleep per night; the rest of her time would be entirely devoted to learning.

_You must respect yourself, no matter the cost._

When McGonagall had said that, perhaps she had not considered a situation such as this.

All day long, Hermione studied the scrolls with rules. There had to be a loophole, and once she found it, she would be able to renegotiate new rules. Though her stomach gnawed with hunger, she would not be put off from her task. The shadows grew long and then, as the sun disappeared behind the tangled woods to the west, her room became too dark for her to read.

And that was when she realized the loophole—it was so simple, yet so obvious. Hermione could only assume that her hunger had led to her missing something like this. But the loophole lay in the very first sentence, poised atop the long list of rules:

_Below list the rules by which Lord Voldemort's apprentice must abide. The apprentice will read the rules in full and he shall inscribe his signature in a magically binding contract at the line below._

She lit a candle and set to work rewriting the rules on her own parchment.

After dusk she heard a commotion outside and watched as Riddle's magnificent black horse came to a slow trot as it reached the park of Selwyn Hall. Lady Umbridge and the man with the silvery hand rushed out to greet him as though he’d been gone for years.

Steeling her will, Hermione cast a drying spell on the ink of the scroll, rolled it up along with the old version, and began practicing what she might say to Riddle.

But he did not send for her, and, hours later when she was sure he must be settled in, she went to look for him, but there were no signs of life in the manor.

The halls were so dark. No candles were lit. Hermione walked with her wandtip lit, looking for signs of _anyone,_ her belly tight with desperate hunger. It seemed that, at this late hour, everyone had retreated to their rooms. Intrigued by the opportunity that this afforded, she went to the front hall, where those endless shelves of books were. This way, she would have privacy to browse through them at her leisure, without fear of Lady Lestrange or Umbridge interrupting her and scolding her...

But it seemed that, like Hogwarts, Selwyn was a place of magic and surprises, because the hall that led to the front hall appeared to simply be _missing_. Hermione stood in the general area, feeling the wall, and though the pure mechanics of the magic fascinated her, her ears began to ring, her palms growing clammy and her heart pounding like a drum, as she realized the implications of this magic.

No one could leave.

This incredible, fantastic, horrific magic meant that the main entrance was blocked off.

She stepped back and felt her lungs constrict, but before she could begin to genuinely panic, she heard distant footsteps. Instinctively she put out her wand light and ducked behind a tapestry.

Along slats of moonlight a figure was sliding in and out of view. The alabaster skin seemed to glow in each slat of light, like that of a ghost. The specter paused, its dark head beginning to tilt in her direction…

Hermione held her breath.

A pale, elegant hand reached toward her.

The floor creaked—was it her or that figure? Her hands were shaking so terribly that she knew she had given herself away by the parchment rustling in her fists as they trembled.

Moonlight flashed for an instant upon the face—and then--

Everything went dark as though the moon had been put out.

"Miss Granger—your lesson begins in quite a few hours from now; you needn't wait here _now_ ," Riddle's clear voice rang out, startling her enough that she nearly dropped her wand. The thick darkness was broken as Riddle appeared with his wand tip lit, wearing a simple but finely-made coat, his hair slightly mussed. He gave a short swipe of his wand and the tapestry blew aside, revealing her to him.

For a moment she could not speak; Riddle stood precisely where that horrible specter had, his elegant hand raised and holding his wand.

Was he the specter?

"I was simply--"

"—Looking for me?" He came upon her and slashed his wand once more; the scrolls flew from her hands. "Ah, Umbridge gave you the rules, and you decided to argue." He turned away from her as he examined the scrolls in a bored fashion. "Ah, very good, you found the loophole. You are correct—as you are not a _he_ , this contract is not binding for you."

He tossed the scrolls aside and turned back to her again, but her relief was eclipsed by her terror and confusion, and a lurching sense of  _wrongness_ that could not be put right.

"There should be a hallway here," she insisted, too prickly to linger on the fact that the parchment of rules had apparently been a test he had put to her—and an idiotic one, at that. Riddle quirked a clever brow.

"To the books, yes," he said, his voice tinged with amusement, as he saw through her immediately. "I like my things where they are so I have arranged this manor to keep them where they are. You will have all the time in the world to look at them—in fact, you may find it too much time."

"But what about the rules? And what about my stipend?" Hermione pressed, as she stepped away from the tapestry, emboldened by the blood returning to her limbs. Riddle began walking back towards her rooms, and she followed him.

"We will discuss that tomorrow."

They stood before her carved door now, and he stepped just a hair too close for comfort. “Best not to linger in Selwyn’s halls at night, Miss Granger,” he murmured now. “Even I do not propose to know of all its secrets—or its inhabitants.”

He raised his hand once more, free of the wand, and she heard that ringing again as her eyes fell upon the lovely lines of his hand.

In a curious move that, were his eyes not so dark and strange like the sea, could have been mistaken for affection, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, which had escaped from its confines. “Good night, Miss Granger.” 


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely comments and kudos!

 

_**Present Day** _

Night had fallen, and they fled shrouded in its darkness. It did not take Severus very long to pack up his sparse belongings. As they left, they turned back to face the cottage that Severus would no longer call home, its facade as dark as if it had been abandoned all along.

“I’ll ward it--” Hermione began, already waving her wand, but Severus stopped her with a cold, clammy palm. 

“You will not. He’ll recognize your magic,” said Severus flatly. “And furthermore you lack the strength presently. It would be a waste of your remaining magical reserves.” She watched him wave his wand with neither flourish nor theatrics, and the cottage disappeared before their very eyes. “Come. We do not have much time,” he said then. He gripped her arm and they turned on the spot.

When they reappeared, it was in a cramped alleyway in busy London. The distinctive _clop-clop_ of horseshoes against cobblestone was a sound she’d not heard in quite some time—now that she thought of it, there were so many sounds she had not heard in some time. She had been utterly cut off from the rest of the world, totally cloistered from life.

“We should disguise ourselves,” said Hermione, grabbing Severus’ cloak before he could walk out into the street. Wordlessly, they turned to each other and performed simple transformation spells. Hermione, practical as she was, knew that the best transformation spells were the simplest ones. She gave Severus a short beard and pulled his hair back from his face, and turned his robes into a nondescript Muggle-style black waistcoat. In turn, he lightened her hair so it was a mousy shade closer to blonde, and made her dress more elaborate and more fashionable. To anyone’s eyes, they would appear to be a typical if unremarkable husband and wife returning home from a night at the theater or at some sort of ball.

Her skirts were far heavier and more dramatic than those to which she was accustomed, and it made walking difficult. As they appeared out from the darkness of the alleyway, she took Severus’ arm, as though leaning on her husband’s arm for support.

_But anyone who ever studies people and their feelings would know we are not in love,_ she pondered as they walked. It would be all too evident in the rigidness of Severus’ posture, in the gap between their bodies in spite of the connection, in the way they said no words to each other, as they walked, too swiftly to truly be a couple in love at their own leisure.

They passed by some sort of party in one of the houses; they could hear music playing even from the street. In the glow of the front window Hermione saw a merry party indeed, dancing and clapping along to music gaily.

Absurdly, she thought of the single party that had been at Selwyn Hall. Her eyes burned as she remembered Lady Ginevra Weasley, tossing her richly hued, coppery head of magnificent hair and laughing freely, as Hermione had never been able to do, at a snide joke of Riddle’s. She’d watched, sickened, as he had guided Lady Ginevra’s delicate, pale, lightly freckled hands along the pianoforte, his dark head bent close to her copper one, the two most beautiful creatures in the room—in the whole world, perhaps, it had seemed as such in that moment to Hermione—and she had fled, unable to bear her own monstrous envy.

And of course, it was _that night_ that had started all of the trouble. As she walked, now, she considered, as she often did, the various possible chains of events that could have occurred.

What if she had not fallen for Riddle? What if seeing Riddle so close to such a lovely woman had inspired nothing but general amusement and perhaps disinterest in her, as the romantic toils of others usually did? She would not have left the front hall so soon; she would have not stumbled upon the greatest secret of all at Selwyn Hall—and yet the secret she had somehow known within her heart all along. She would have continued on as Riddle’s apprentice, willfully ignorant to that which all evidence she had been subconsciously collecting from the beginning had pointed.

She would still be at Selwyn, in Riddle’s grip…

“Do you have a plan?” she finally asked Severus, as they walked. “Where are we going?”

“There is a house in which we may live,” said Severus shortly.

Hermione was silent. Her mind spun as she interpreted what Severus must mean. They were to live in hiding, masquerading as a married couple—as a _Muggle_ married couple, no less. Was there no other option? For all of the steps she had taken to avoid becoming married, to avoid losing magic, here she was now, walking towards precisely that fate. She had been stripped of her extraordinary magical abilities by Riddle’s wards and catapulted into dependence upon a man by her own choosing.

Her exhaustion, emotional and physical, defeated her for now. Overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of London, she relented to Severus, and let him lead her through the streets towards this house. For tonight, she decided, she would allow fate to carry her. Tomorrow she would begin again, a small sparrow unrelenting in the face of strong winds.

Grimmauld Place was a small, dark square. It was blessedly quiet compared to the rest of London. As they slowed to a stop, Hermione noticed something.

“There’s no number twelve,” she remarked, as Severus turned to her.

“Not to Muggles,” he said smugly, before waving his wand. As though squeezing in between eleven and thirteen, twelve appeared before them. Hermione followed Severus up to the door and watched as he produced a heavy set of keys from his coat. The door opened, and they entered the dark, musty house.

_**Two Years Ago** _

Hermione awoke before dawn. Her dreams had been unsettled and chaotic, filled with that strange laugh she had heard; images of flames; and Riddle’s dark, clever, handsome eyes.

She dressed herself and went down to the kitchens as soon as possible; in spite of knowing that eating the food at Selwyn Hall was not actually off limits, she did not relish unnecessary confrontation, and she had the feeling the fewer interactions she had with Lady Lestrange and Umbridge, the better.

If Umbridge was the head housekeeper, then what was Lady Lestrange's position? She knew Riddle to be an unmarried man, so why would he have a lady—clearly one of affluence, at that—residing at his home?

Perhaps Lady Lestrange was, as Remus had warned, one of those who practiced the Dark Arts at Riddle's home.

The kitchens were full with House Elves cooking breakfast; Hermione had to weave and wend her way through the kitchens to get some bread and cheese. Even that was delicious, and the smells in the kitchens made her mouth water, though Riddle himself did not appear to be a man who often ate rich meals, based on his svelte figure and pale countenance.

Her hunger somewhat sated, Hermione pulled on her heaviest cloak and took another piece of bread and went outside into the pre-dawn air.

A layer of delicate frost covered the old gardens, and she could distantly hear the roar of the sea. She had stuffed some notes on basic magic in her pockets, and now she sat on one of the crumbling stone benches, shivering among the fading roses, and attempted to read. She preferred a good stuffed chair in which to do her studies but there was some ill sort of air about the manor; she felt freer, even out here in its ruined gardens.

"Early riser."

Hermione nearly dropped her bread. A man, of quite thin and reedy stature, was guiding a silent-footed Thestral past the kitchens, presumably towards the stables. "Finally caught your Thestrals," he explained, jerking his head back towards the silent creature. He had long, ragged dark hair, and though his clothes were finely-made, he wore them like a costume.

"Oh, they're not mine, they're Hogwarts'," she explained, rising to her feet. She dropped into a quick curtsy. "Hermione Granger. I'm--"

"--I know who you are," he said with a knowing leer. He was missing teeth. "Rabastan Lestrange." He bowed to her in a sarcastic sort of way, with too much flourish.

He continued on, towards the stables. Hermione's stomach was unsettled now—she had assumed that the thestrals had simply returned to Hogwarts. They were highly intelligent creatures. If Rabastan had caught them, did that mean they were keeping them here against their will?

But they would _certainly_ return them to Hogwarts, Hermione blustered mentally. She had other things to consider now—such as the fact that this man had to either be Lady Lestrange's husband or brother. It was hard to reconcile this haggard man with Lady Lestrange's opulent, decadent appearance.

The sky was shot through with pink now; it was dawn, and her lessons were to begin. Hermione gathered her things and went inside the manor. The corridor leading to the front hall was there again; curiously, Hermione examined the walls as she walked. Her fingertips grew warm with the powerful magic in the very walls, and something deepest in her being stirred with hope.

This Riddle was a powerful man—and she was to learn from him.

The horror matched the hope and neither could quite be tamped down. So, with butterflies in her belly, her blood singing with the magic with which these halls teemed, she entered the front hall.

Riddle was clad in a simple, dark coat; he sat at his desk, a dark quill moving along parchment of its own accord as he read from another document. He didn't look up when she entered, but before she could even open her mouth to announce herself, she heard slamming doors—all entrances to the front hall were securely blocked off, ensconcing them deep in privacy. She wondered if he had even made the halls accessing this room disappear.

"What if someone needs your attention?" she asked instead of announcing herself, as she approached Riddle's desk. He continued to read.

"There are other ways of contacting me," he said absently. The quill twirled with a great flourish—it was leaving Riddle's signature at the bottom of the document—and Hermione peered at it curiously.

He had signed it _Lord Voldemort_.

The parchment was furled into a scroll before she could seriously ponder the signature, and then Riddle stood before her, in all his tall, dark, imposing glory.

Their eyes met, her warm brown for his dark shadow, and his pale lips curved into a hint of a smirk.

“So,” he began, circling around the desk ponderously, “this is the apprentice that Dumbledore has been pushing on me for the past two years. And does she know who I am?” he wondered, tilting his head to the side as he studied her. This was a test, she realized—a test of whether she would call him by his preferred name or his given one.

She was strong willed, yes, but she was certainly no fool.

“You are Lord Voldemort,” she said, straining to keep her voice level, straining to fight against the instinctive urge to step back, away from him. Something flashed in his eyes and he nodded slowly.

“Good,” he said in that same soft, ponderous tone. “And does the apprentice know _of_ me?”

Another test—this time, the correct answer was not so clear. Hermione swallowed over a lump forming in her throat. _Dark Arts. Blood money. A secret…_

“I am not sure I should say,” she said finally, truthfully, feeling his gaze to be quite stronger than she could bear. She longed to break eye contact and wondered if this was some sort of spell too, some sort of forbidden spell that even she had not encountered in all of her years of reading the books she wasn't supposed to read.

“You are a clever one,” he murmured, “and also wise, that you know better than to bore me with the accusations of those fools at Hogwarts.” His voice went from soft to sharp so quickly. He made her think of a coiled serpent, preparing to strike.

Her mouth went dry, and she finally felt her foot slide back irresistibly. “You must be wondering why a man such as I would take on an apprentice. You can see that I have little time for leisure.”

Hermione had a number of guesses, but she kept her mouth shut now, waiting to see what he said. Riddle arched his brows. “But you also know better than to go picking up rocks when you might not like what’s underneath.”

He abruptly turned away from her, and began pacing. “For three years, you will be my apprentice. You will stretch the boundaries of what is possible with magic, you will stretch your own abilities further than Hogwarts ever tested you. Do as I say, follow my lead, and you will leave here with more power than you ever dared dream that an impoverished, insignificant mudblood girl such as yourself could possibly possess.

“You will relinquish outside contact, you will not receive holidays or leisure time. You will devote all waking hours to the study of magic. Your concentration must be absolute; you cannot weaken your own abilities with... _distractions_.

“Your stipend will consist of food, provided by my House Elves, and enough money to purchase any supplies you may need. Should your studies require more money beyond your stipend, it will be provided to you. While here at Selwyn, you shall not want for food, clothing, equipment, or magical supplies.”

He turned back to face her, a challenge in his eyes. He held her gaze levelly. Hermione’s mind, meanwhile, was working at top speed.

Could she do this? Could she really give up the rest of the world for three whole years?

_Love, Remus._

When she and Remus had bid each other goodbye they had known the possibility that it would be the last time they saw each other for a very long time, perhaps even forever. Their letters would grow less often, as they each readjusted to their lives and forgot each other. They’d send numerous excuses of why they had taken so long to reply to each others’ letters. And then, one of them (more likely Remus), would write, one day, _I’ve met someone._

This, Hermione reasoned, was just skipping over that waiting, that distancing. This was skipping to the painful part and getting it over with as quickly as possible.

Like a last lifeline being severed, Remus was the only remaining tenuous connection holding her to the outside world.

But what did she need the outside world for? It had done her no good. The world despised her, for her sex, her blood status, her brilliance, her temperament, her plain features. The world had nothing to offer her and saw nothing that she could possibly offer it. A woman of no proud stock, her soul marred by the possession of powerful magic and a powerful mind and the lack of a lovely countenance, unwilling to submit to the ceremonies and dullness of married life, unwilling to relinquish her magic…

In her mind’s eye the flames that had nearly consumed the parchment containing Remus’ love finally, at last, curled around that signature, and it was demolished forever.

Like always, it was in the end an easy choice.

“I will do all that happily, as long as you swear to teach me everything you know,” she said finally, watching Riddle’s eyes light up. She suspected he could not feel things like joy or delight, but that this was an emotion that came quite close.

“I will teach you all that and more,” he began, stepping closer to her, his voice growing low and quiet. She waited for him to ask her to sign something, to make the Unbreakable Vow, but he never did. “You wonder how secure such a contract could be,” he guessed, studying her face. “The answer is simple: contracts are never binding. Only a person’s deepest will is most binding. If you feel you cannot agree to such severe stipulations, you can leave now. But if you can agree so readily, it means you want something that only I can give you, and such stipulations will not matter, will not stand in your way. This is your choice, Miss Granger. I will not bar you here.”

If only she had known at that time that there were  _other_ binds—ones not made of ropes or chains or magic—that could hold a person in a place.

“Then we should begin,” she said, her voice rough and her eyes burning. She knew the weight of her own decisions, but what he had said moved her, and she knew he was right. _It means you want something only I can give you…_

Lessons began immediately. Riddle insisted that they begin with a thorough exploration of the extent of the magic she already possessed, and as Hermione ran through the simple spells that she had mastered immediately even as a child, her mind was elsewhere, fixed on that scrap of parchment that lay shut in a book in her room. _Love, Remus._

She could not write to Remus, informing him of her seclusion, and she did not suppose she would have, anyway. There was no way she could explain the arrangement without raising his suspicions. It was better to make a clean break of it.

Yet even with the surgical precision of the severing of that relationship, the breaking of her heart was not so precise: her heartache was messy and felt filled with carnage as she dully recounted such elementary spells as _wingardium leviosa_ and made Riddle’s quill levitate about the room.

“Miss Granger,” he interrupted, swiping his own yew wand irritably, causing the quill to drop to the floor, “I made myself quite clear that your mind was not to be distracted.”

“I’m performing these spells perfectly, and I have been able to do so since I was a child,” she said hotly, for a moment forgetting she was speaking to Riddle, and instead assuming the overly familiar dynamic she had always had with her teachers—Remus in particular. Riddle arched his brows. She blushed and recoiled. “Spells such as these cannot hold my full attention, even when my mind is not called elsewhere,” she clarified more quietly. Riddle, to her surprise, nodded.

“I have chosen my apprentice well indeed,” he said approvingly. “Perhaps you wish for a taste of some of what I can teach you,” he suggested, almost innocently. Hermione thought of the moving walls, too solid to be mere illusions. She thought of how the air was almost stiflingly thick with magic. Chills ran down her spine. “Come,” he ordered, eyes sparking with delight at seeing the hunger in her eyes. She followed him wordlessly to one of the barred doors; he waved his wand and it disappeared, revealing the hall once more.

They walked through Selwyn, up the stairs, through halls she had not seen before. So he kept this part of the manor closed off as well...she wondered if she would have more free access to the rest of the manor now that he taught her, though she did not dare to ask now. The halls became less opulent, and soon they were simple corridors, not lined with tapestry or portrait or thick carpet as before. They each wordlessly lit their wand tips as they came to a corridor with no windows, at the very heart of the manor. Riddle stepped close to the wall and a door appeared. She had no time to marvel at his abilities, however, as she followed him inside and was greeted with the most spectacular thing she had ever seen.

In this windowless stone room, filling it to the ceiling, was a perfect replica of the solar system. It seemed to breathe and drift like a living thing itself. The door locked behind her, and part of her wondered briefly at how many other marvels and treasures lay behind hidden doors such as this in this corridor alone, let alone the rest of the manor.

The stars and planets winked and twinkled. It was like floating in the firmament, and she could feel that it must have been incredibly complex magic—even to generate an image of a thing was difficult work, let alone create an image with any permanency. But then, to have copied the stars…

“It’s not complete,” said Riddle, clearly pleased at the awe evident in her face, “but it’s proven quite useful for Divination in particular.”

She was so taken aback by the beauty and intricacy of the magic that she could not even be bothered to have a dismissive thought of Divination, a branch of magic she typically disdained for its imprecision and sensational tendencies.

“It is perfect,” she breathed, walking to stand beneath it—no, _immersed_ in it—so that she could spin about and see all of the constellations that she had spent so many years studying. “I have never seen--” she could not finish her sentence as she reached up to touch the stars, and scattered light fell across her skin. Prickles of heat seared her fingertips and she drew her hands away quickly, rubbing her fingertips on her twill skirts. Beyond the stars Riddle surveyed her with the same look she had seen in his eyes before—something not quite joy or delight, but as close to such feelings as he could get.

She stared back at him, her curiosity genuinely piqued. What sort of man could not feel happiness yet could create a thing of beauty such as this? She was as sure of her own estimations of him as she was sure of her own abilities in magic. What sort of man chose a mudblood girl as his apprentice, when he could have chosen literally anyone else? Did he really see her solely for her raw talent, or did he see her as someone easiest to mold, to manipulate?

Still, if he could show her how to do things such as _this_ —she looked now once more at the stars winking around her like little jewels suspended in midair—then she would happily consent to molding and manipulation.

“Now I have your mind,” he observed, stepping under the blanket of stars to join her.

“Yes,” she breathed, looking at the Pleiades constellation.

_**Present Day** _

Severus did not explain how this house had come into his possession and Hermione did not, for the time being, press him for explanation. She found the first bedroom and locked herself in it, and fell onto the bed. Severus’ transformation had already begun fading by the time they had reached the house—that meant her magic was weaker than ever. She had never felt more worthless or vulnerable in her life.

It had to be the barrier or ward that had wrapped round Selwyn Hall, though she could not imagine how it _continued_ to sap her magic abilities. She wondered if it was less of a barrier and more of a central location—perhaps the further she got from Selwyn, the more her abilities were sapped.

She prepared for sleep and Severus did not call for her throughout the night. She supposed that they both needed time on their own to adjust to the significant changes to their lives. Hermione, for her part, was in shock that Severus was even doing this for her. Throughout her time at Hogwarts he had been nothing but acidic and abusive, intentionally denying her help and education and drawing attention in subtle but sophisticated and effective ways to her blood status.

That he was choosing to help her must mean that he was aligned with her cause—he must know the secret which Selwyn Hall had collectively been harboring for nearly twenty years.

Thinking of that very secret, in spite of the distance she had put between herself and said secret, still chilled her to her very bones. She thought of that tower room, of how it had not had windows for many years. She could not help but picture such a life, and it made her chest constrict with fear.

And she thought of the magic seeping through every crack of the manor—she had always thought it must simply be Riddle's exceedingly powerful reserve of magic, and yet the truth had turned out to be so much darker, so much more complicated...

Dawn arrived all too soon. Hermione had only drifted in and out of sleep, unable to fully let go in this novel place. The mustiness and stench of mildew and rotting wood didn't help matters, either, nor the fact that she possessed no nightclothes and had not eaten in over a day now. She had grown too accustomed to her full, plush mattress with the ever-lit fireplace next to her bed and the three square meals every day.

She lay there on the lumpy mattress and stared at the ceiling, hunting within her soul for her resolve. Her soul was, however, nearly bled dry. She had escaped Selwyn by relinquishing her dearest ambitions...she had always thought that her ambition was a force most powerful within her, but now she saw that her morality trumped it after all. And yet... it had not been a simple, easy decision. To run _to_ her ambition had been so simple—how easily had she discarded Remus!—but, to run _from_ it—a different creature entirely.

But she must go on. She had started on this path. She would not live with herself if she gave up now.

She rose and dressed in the clothes, which Severus had transfigured; she did some of her own work, feeble though it was, on her clothes so that they were more plain and practical. She avoided the looking glass—she did not want to know how much her desperation and loss showed on her face.

Severus had risen and was moving about upstairs; she could hear him when she entered the grubby kitchen. She had little experience in preparing food, and there was nothing in the cupboards anyway. The best she could do was tea, unfortunately. By the time she heard Severus' footfalls on the stairs, the water was boiling.

He looked terrible. Her transfiguration to hide him had faded already, and now that she could see him in daylight, she saw how thin he had grown, compared to the man who had terrorized her at Hogwarts for so many years. She’d always thought he looked quite sallow and ill but now his former self looked positively glowing next to the man he had become. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, surveying her.

"Your magic has grown quite weak," he surmised, touching his face where his beard had been the previous night. "We must find a means of severing your magical connection with Selwyn, or it will drain you completely."

"I tried to locate how the bonds held me last night, but..."

"...But your magic is too weak to do it," Severus concluded. He did not take the tea she offered, and instead circled around her. "...Then again I cannot locate anything on your person either," he said after a moment. "Either he will have some spell I do not know of, or he has hidden the mark so well..." he paused, suddenly coming to face Hermione, his eyes glittering. "Unless...but there is only one other way of creating such a bond," he murmured. Hermione's face grew warm. She wished she did not know of what he spoke. "I had not anticipated you would succumb to such lowly urges, and in such a situation, too," he continued now, looking almost delighted in his disgust.

"I have done nothing," Hermione seethed. Severus snorted.

" _You_ needn't have done a thing." His voice was heavy with insinuation.

“You are hardly implying something truly shameful, if I had done it, but I haven’t. The bond was not formed that way,” she contested hotly. “It doesn’t matter. We cannot concern ourselves--”

“But we must, Miss Granger, for that is how we will reverse whatever may be sapping your magic,” said Severus, turning sharply away from her. “And without your unfortunately admirable capabilities, you are essentially worthless to me, once you have divulged all you know of Selwyn and its workings.”

Hermione was so outraged that she wanted to argue some more, but Severus left the room. She wanted to run after him, to explain exactly how she could prove that she was not in love with Riddle, that the bond had not formed _that_ way, but she knew it was wiser to stay put. She still did not understand Severus’ motives, and she didn’t have time to argue, at any rate…

She went to the drawing room: a narrow room with few furniture and a pianoforte at one end, blanketed with dust. The picture windows looked out to the brick building of next door, and in the alleyway she could see that a light snow had begun to fall. She thought of Selwyn and shivered; the manor was always terribly cold in winter. Her own room had always been warm.

_“I would have thought you would be prudent enough to search books for the answer to your dilemma, but instead you daydream.”_

Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment she thought she might turn round and find Riddle there, leaning against the doorframe, surveying her with amused disappointment.

But no one stood there; Severus was still presumably up in his room, and no one had spoken. She blinked the tears from her eyes and gathered her skirts. For whatever sins he had committed, Riddle had always been right—daydreaming lacked any prudence or worth.

This house had no library. A few spare books were placed here and there in the drawing room, and she found books of recipes in the kitchen, but after hunting around for a library, she came up empty-handed.

She found herself in front of Severus’ door. _No reason to be nervous. It’s just Snape,_ she snapped at herself, before knocking on his door.

“Severus, we must discuss...this,” she said loudly through the locked door. She heard the click of the lock... and then she opened the door. 


	5. Part Five

_**Two Years Ago** _

Hermione met Riddle’s eyes in the starlight, and in a display of unusual demureness averted her gaze briefly. When she looked back at him, it was with renewed focus.

“Show me,” she insisted. “You must have taken me on for a purpose. You know incredible things!” She gestured to the stars around them. Riddle’s lips curved into a smirk.

“I know extraordinary things, and I require an extraordinary apprentice—you have yet to prove yourself.”

“What would you have me do?” she demanded.

“All manner of spells, I expect,” he replied insinuatingly. “Follow me—there is so much to learn and I long to see just how much the bat and the dog and the old fool taught you.”

Hermione froze in place as Riddle turned away from her to leave the room. She could not find her voice, though she commanded herself to pretend ignorance to what he had said.

Riddle slyly looked over his svelte shoulder at her. “I assume your silence is not borne of objection to Severus’ fitting nickname nor Dumbledore’s. Tell me, is your affection for the dog going to present a problem?”

There was no empathy for Remus in those shadow-colored eyes. There was no feeling in those shadow-colored eyes at all.

“The d-dog,” she stammered, the blood draining from her face. “I do not understand—“

She dare not finish her sentence at the look on his face, of icy disdain. Their eyes met and once again she had the sensation of her deepest thoughts being invaded, and she rallied. She watched Riddle arch his brows in surprise.

“A natural Occlumens. Just like me,” he remarked softly. “Come. I will teach you that spell so you’ll never have to be on the wrong end of it ever again.”

Hermione followed him wordlessly, torn between her horror at his insinuations and her excitement at the prospect of new spells.

Later, she would think that she should have been angrier. She should have fought harder. She should have shouted, should have made demands, should have left.

Should have. Didn't.

In silence they returned to the hall where he conducted business and once again the hall was magically sealed off. “Now that you’ve had a small taste of my abilities I expect you will show some more interest in your lessons. I will at times test the limits of not just your magic, but of _all_ magic. To be worthy of this apprenticeship, you must be willing to follow me to those limits.” 

“And will you ever do anything besides talk?” she blurted crossly, again forgetting that he was not another professor at Hogwarts, forgetting what she had glimpsed in those eyes, forgetting reality, forgetting everything important. He smirked at her, brandishing his wand.

“My apprentice grows tired of me already,” he mused. “Let us begin, then.”

 

_**Present Day** _

The room Severus had taken was the master bedroom, and though it was the most grand of all the rooms, Hermione was grateful she’d not chosen it. It was dark and suffocating in hunter green velvet, with no daylight and a thick blanket of dust.

Severus sat at the large mahogany secretary and was poring over a large tome. He, rather childishly she thought, did not look up. “Why are you helping me? I know you must have been expecting me, and you could only have known that if you had informants at Selwyn. So who were your informants?”

Severus did not turn around.

“My business is not yours.”

A flare of rage erupted in Hermione, alien to her. Sometimes her anger coursed through her like venom, made her head feel hot, made her eyes and lungs burn and made her hands shake. The air around her crackled; she supposed her magic was returning to her slowly, in unexpected bursts. 

“It is _our_ business now! Why did you take me in? Why are you helping me?”

Severus turned to her, his ugly features twisted with some cruel intention. She knew that he was about to strike her—not physically but emotionally. Remus had once observed that Severus caused the most pain to others when he could no longer bear his own burden of pain, and she saw it now on his face. He rose from the desk and stalked toward her.

"You think this is my choice."

Hermione stared up at him even as her heart pounded.

"I don't know if it is your choice—it hardly makes sense to be your choice," she countered. "None of this makes any sense, and that's why I want some answers. Why in the name of Merlin would any of this be your choice?"

"At least you are intelligent enough to have observed that obvious fact," he said. He was too close now; she could smell the mingled, strong scents of rare magical herbs on him. It was both intriguing and overwhelming. "Tell me, you stupid mudblood—have you heard of the Unbreakable Vow?"

Hermione held her tongue and waited for him to continue; his black eyes flashed. "I see you have. Well, as bad luck would have it, the Imperius Curse can be used to trap someone in it."

The strange urges that had filled her like black smoke more and more as she spent more time at Selwyn surged within her now. It was an ugly thing, like a serpent of hatred coiling around her heart and squeezing the life from it. And yet it was a lovely thing, too—for how else could a rabbit-hearted creature like her lift her chin like she did now and smirk, meeting Severus' cruel black gaze so directly? She matched him cruelty for cruelty.

"Only someone as weak as you would fall to the Imperius Curse so easily." It was like speaking in tongues; a hundred voices were in her head, none of them were hers, or perhaps this _was_ her, perhaps this was who she truly was. Severus' eyes widened and she waited for him to attack but there was some glimmer in his eyes.

"I see it now," he breathed, and he closed in on her. His cold hands gripped her jaw with surprising strength as he gazed into her eyes as though looking down a dark well. "This is how he's done it."

"It was Dumbledore, was it not?" She broke free of his grasp with a shock of magic that shook the house. Severus flew back as though galvanized but he looked, if anything, breathless with delight, even as he fell back against the bed. That cruelty held her back straight as she approached him, that cruelty drew her taller than she'd ever braved to stand, as she approached his prone form. "Or was it Remus? Even that fool—not brave enough to stay alive—was powerful enough to trick you. How sad."

_No_. She had to fight it.

But the power that flowed through her veins was like an elixir and it was like she'd breached the surface after being held under water: she could _breathe_ again. Even this hideous room was in colour so bright it burned her eyes but she couldn't bear to close them from the pain because it was exquisite. She saw all; she knew all. This was the power she had sacrificed everything for, and for the moment she could not recall why she had so readily given it up.

"It was both of them," Severus admitted, his gaze heavy on her as she approached him. "But now that I see this I can hardly regret it...I did not know my Lord had reached such heights."

His voice was fearful and respectful, but it still angered her. How _dare_ he? How dare this traitorous man look upon her lord's power with such delight, with so little fear?

"It was me!" she hissed, and she held out her palms. The pain that engulfed Severus robbed him even of the strength to scream. He silently writhed and keened on the coverlet, his gaunt limbs twitching; spittle gathered at the corners of his gaping mouth as his eyes rolled back into his head. Burning trails of heat blazed along her spine, circling her ribcage, and twining down her arms, coming out of her palms. "It was not Voldemort!" she screamed. "It was me!"

She released him from agony and watched him fall back into the covers so limply, like a little girl's doll. She circled the bed, the better to see his face, and curled an arm round one of the bed's posters thoughtfully as she gazed down at her victim. His eyelids were so pale they were almost translucent; his neck was twisted with green veins that throbbed now as the blood flow returned to normal.

And as his eyes, bloodshot from his pain, shot open, the breath left her and now she clung to the poster for fear of dropping to the floor. She was breathless and aching; her body could remember the heat from that power like a bad burn, and now she was left shivering and pathetic in its absence. She sank down, still clutching the poster, her face pressed into the covers, and felt a hand on the back of her head. Severus applied some pressure until it became difficult to breathe, but she knew better than to struggle against him.

"I did not think it possible," he hissed, his breath hot and damp against her ear, as the pressure increased, and now she could truly not breathe. "I told Lord Voldemort years ago that it could not be accomplished—it was against the laws of magic! But he proved me wrong...you captivate yet disgust me. Your existence has become an aberration...you belong to neither nature nor magic; not this world or the next. You have damned yourself for him and he led you to it. I did not know that anyone could be so desperate for power."

He released her and she fell back onto the floor with a thud as she gasped wildly for air. Severus was a dark smudge above her as her vision swam. And then he was kneeling over her, his gaze roving over her hungrily. "I must know how it was done."

"He knows nothing," she sobbed, as her vision, her breath, and her guilt returned to her in a single rush of blood back to her head. "He does not know what I did."

"Lord Voldemort knows all, you stupid mudblood."

Hermione let out a sob. 

Why had she done it?

_**Two Years Ago** _

Winter came and blanketed Selwyn in sparkling white. She had been at Selwyn for one month now, and Christmas was approaching. If she had had more time perhaps she would have wistfully thought of Christmas at the castle, but Riddle kept his word and was working her to the bone. She spent all day every day from dawn to well past dusk in his library, learning of complex magical theories that were far beyond the confines of her imagination. The magic she had learned at Hogwarts already seemed shallow and childish in retrospect—she had learned to conjure objects and transfigure items; she had learned to brew Sleeping Draughts and Pepper Up Potions; she had learned basic runes...but now she saw how limited such skills were.

_Anyone_ could brew a Sleeping Draught.

Few could perfectly model the solar system in a single room.

She had thought Riddle had simply created points of light in designs that matched that of the solar system, but he had done so much more. He had mirrored the sky itself.

She would do _anything_ it took to learn how to do that. 

For the last few days, they had been studying the fundamental laws of magic—a subject of which she had read all there was, but that was precisely the problem. Too few had written of the fundamentals of magic, and Riddle claimed it was because few understood them.

Riddle paused in his explanation and looked at Hermione shrewdly.

"I can see you're about to interrupt me even before you know you will," he said irritably. "It is even more disruptive than the interruption itself. Speak now, girl, since I know you will anyway."

The first time that Riddle had done this, Hermione's face had flushed in shame and embarrassment, but now she hardly thought of it. She was standing next to him in front of a blackboard, and he spoke while a piece of chalk fluidly drew diagrams to assist him.

"You say that magic cannot be created or destroyed—that there is a consistent amount of magic in the universe and you must draw upon it—but what about objects that are Vanished?"

Riddle sighed.

"We already know that Vanished objects go into nonbeing, which is not as much of nothing as it sounds."

"But you cannot bring something back from nonbeing, just as you cannot bring the dead back to life," Hermione shot back. She saw a flash of something in Riddle's eyes, almost like her words made him recall a secret, but it was gone before she could examine it further. A natural Occlumens indeed. "In effect, is that not destruction—or at least the same thing?"

"No one has ever claimed you could not bring something back from nonbeing. Will it return in the same form? No, of course not. If you Vanish a magical object, for example, its material form will be destroyed, and its magical energy will be dispersed into nonbeing."

"But then _where_ is nonbeing?"

"Do they teach you nothing at Hogwarts? _Everything_ is nonbeing." He cast a hand about the room. "It is here! Everywhere!"

"But then where does its material form go?"

"It matters not," Riddle said dismissively. "All that is important is the raw magical power that is thusly redistributed through all things, like water into soil. If you dump water on soil, where does it go?"

"Into the soil. And it then is distributed to plants, absorbed by rock and stone, and the rest evaporates and is absorbed by clouds," she said dully, rolling her eyes. "But water is a silly example—what of fire?"

"What of it indeed?" Riddle folded his arms across his chest and regarded her with forced interest. This was, perhaps, testing the absolute bounds of his patience.

"Where does fire go? It comes from potential energy, and then changes the physical state of whatever it comes into contact with, but it always stops. It cannot rage on indefinitely."

"I believe I see your point," he said slowly. 

"Heat is not totally conserved, is it?" she pressed on, as she began to pace. "And what is magic, if not _heat_ at its essence? And heat—energy—is what changes the physical state of things, and some energy is inherently lost to the universe. It is not perfectly conserved...at least, I do not believe that it can be." She looked at him once more. "Would that not mean, then, that the universe's supply of magic is slowly dwindling?"

The very thought chilled her. Suddenly the room seemed more dark, more empty. She looked around, hairs prickling along her skin.

Would that not mean that magic was slowly dying?

Would that not mean that the  _world_ was slowly dying? 

The clock seemed too loud. 

"It _could_ ," Riddle conceded—yet again she saw that maddening flash in his eyes. She pointed at him.

"And yet there is some fact you have been withholding, evidently, to reveal at the end so dramatically after I have worked through all of this," she said with a scowl. "So what is it?"

"I lied," Riddle said simply, though she could see the relish with which he spoke in his eyes. "Magic can be created and it can be destroyed. It does not follow the crude laws of nature that other forms of energy must adhere to—though I will postulate that perhaps magic itself can alter how _other_ forms of energy are conserved."

"You mean life," she said quickly. "And yet is there any evidence that magic can do anything but prolong the inevitability of death? There isn't." She paused, saw that flash again.

Her instinct was to demand that he tell her all that he knew, but as their eyes met, she realized that perhaps she ought to relegate this particular topic to her independent studies for the time being...

"Of course there isn't," he said levelly. "You've done more reading than anyone. You know this already. Magic can be created and it can be destroyed, but there is no evidence that it can undo death. Now, are we done on this tangent?"

"For now," she said primly, and she took her seat back at the desk Riddle had fashioned for her.

He continued on with his lecture of the laws of magic. It was not that it was not fascinating—she had always wanted to understand Transfiguration at this deepest, most elemental level—but she found it difficult to put away the image of that flash in his eyes.

It had been a flash of emerald, most peculiarly, and she wondered if she had simply imagined it. Sometimes those shadow-coloured eyes gleamed red, but she put it to the strange dark light of Selwyn, of the roaring fires in most rooms. 

But emerald... She had never seen so green a colour in eyes. 

It was snowing outside. Almost Christmas, she thought again. Her thoughts rested on the memory of Christmas at the castle only briefly. 

It was amazing how quickly she had stopped thinking of Remus. 

_Is there any evidence that magic can do anything but prolong the inevitability of death?_ she'd asked. 

A flash of emerald. 

_Of course there isn't,_ he'd said. 

But he'd also said  _I lied._

* * *

It was late at night that they finished for the day. Riddle had business to attend to and Hermione was banished to her own room, as was usually the case. It rarely bothered her because most nights she wanted to review her notes from the day's lessons, but today she found it highly frustrating that she could not sneak into the library as long as Riddle was still there. He often worked late into the night, so she would have to wait until just before dawn, most likely.

She dug through her books that she had brought from Hogwarts in the meantime, in search of a likely one. There were no mentions of immortality in any of them, however, and now that she was looking it seemed highly strange that such a topic would go so extensively and completely omitted. Almost like it had been done on purpose.

She was certain that the library at Hogwarts would have something... And now, for the first time since that day that Riddle had shown her his model of the solar system, she found herself tempted to write to Remus.

She had no indication that he'd written to her in the time that had passed. She doubted that Riddle would prevent her from receiving mail, particularly not from a former professor, and yet... Would he? His initial contract had bound her to stay within the bounds of Selwyn and forgo all contact, but did that really mean that he would withhold her letters? 

He knew Remus' secret, but why would that motivate him to withhold her mail?

Or perhaps Remus had not written to her at all.

Even so, she did not choose to contact him by owl. Riddle would know and at the very least it would lead to uncomfortable questioning. No, the best thing to do would be to use a Patronus, however risky it might be.

But it was appropriate, was it not?

After all, it was Remus who had taught her to cast a Patronus.

She watched the silvery otter swim before her eyes and she contained her request within it, and opened the window to the thick snow. It floated off into the night and disappeared in the snow almost immediately.

Hours passed. She reviewed her notes to pass the time, and watched her single candlestick melt away. When it was just a little stub, and her eyes itched with exhaustion, she put away her notes and went to her door.

The halls were so silent that her ears rung. She did not bother with a candle and did not light her wandtip; she had not forgotten the specter she had seen on her first night at Selwyn but it now seemed secondary in comparison to the urgency of her question.

_Was_ there a magical means of immortality?

He'd hidden the library, as he always did, but Hermione had been practicing, and when she stood in front of the wall and waved her wand, the hall materialized before her.

The library was pitch black; the draperies were all drawn shut. The room faintly smelled of smoke, so he must have blown out his candles rather recently. Hermione nearly smacked into the large mirror that stood by one shelf, always covered with a large drape so that only its clawed feet were visible, but she recovered before she could break anything, and crouched in front of the shelves.

"Lumos," she breathed, and the spines of the books came to life in the dim lighting. Riddle did not share with her the organization of his books and therefore she could only start searching at random. She knew she did not have much time to spare, though it was tempting to linger at some of the stranger titles. 

For hours, she searched. In the slit of light between two drapes, Hermione could see that dawn was approaching quickly, and if she were caught here, she was not sure of what the consequences would be. She panicked and moved to the escritoire at which Riddle conducted his business, and scanned the titles of the stack of tomes on it. But these books merely appeared to concern financial and estate matters; they were not even of magical topic. She let out a huff of frustration and was about to give up... when something caught her eye.

It was a letter, half-obscured beneath a stack of parchment containing figures and dates, written in an overly-elegant script. It lacked the precise grace of Riddle's but clearly the writer had attempted to emulate his handwriting. It was signed, 'Draco Malfoy.'

The name sounded familiar. She knew the Malfoy family was an old wizarding family—and a dark one at that—but she felt certain she had either met or heard about this Draco before. Intrigued, she inched the letter out from under the stack, scanning it rapidly, merely out of curiosity.

_'...And my father has stated that due to an unexpected problem in Prague, he will be unable to attend the next gathering. He sends his apologies; naturally, we must keep up appearances, and were he to ignore this issue it would not go unnoticed... I will join your Knights in his stead. My father will contact you personally on this matter but I wished to send notice of this change, along with my oath of absolute loyalty and discretion._

_Your servant,_

_Draco Malfoy'_

"Knights?" she murmured with interest. What was Draco Malfoy talking about? She surreptitiously made a copy of the letter and stuffed it inside her dress; she put out her wandlight, and made her way towards the hall just as she heard brusque footsteps echoing at the other end of the hall. Her belly lurched in horror—there was no time to escape. She slashed her wand through the air and the wall reformed where she had Vanished it previously, and she cast a Disillusionment Spell and dashed behind one of the heavy draperies.

Hermione crouched down and peered around the edge of the drape as the wall dissipated once more, revealing Riddle, dressed pristinely as though he'd got a full night's rest though she knew he had not. Lady Lestrange was trotting after him like an eager dog.

"And will you be requiring the dungeons, my lord?" she breathed. Riddle went to the escritoire and rummaged through it before coming upon blank parchment. He uttered a spell and automatically a fine eagle-feather quill began scripting a letter.

"Of course. Ensure that the apprentice is out of range of the dungeons during that time, though I imagine she will be here."

"Here in your library, my lord, without supervision? Surely we should simply lock her in her room," said Lady Lestrange. "You yourself said it was unwise to let her roam freely here..."

"She will want to get in here whether I wish it or not, and you lack the means or the magic to stop her without injuring her," said Riddle disinterestedly. "Just make sure she does not come upon our guests or our meeting, Bella."

"Absolutely, my lord...and you say I should do so without injuring her?" Lady Lestrange looked like she was hoping very much that he might say otherwise.

"She's already worth quite a bit of gold as is, and her value can only increase, Bella. Don't injure her," he directed wearily. "Now, moving on," he continued, and halted the eagle feather quill in its progress, "you will Owl this for me to Lucius. Ensure it is done immediately." He folded the letter and handed it to her; Lady Lestrange took it as though it were delicate as lace and just as precious. "Lucius has been called to Prague and will be unable to attend, so he is sending the brat in his place," Riddle explained boredly. "If you wouldn't mind, make sure the brat gets a Sleeping Draught or some such thing before he steps into the meeting. He's got an unfortunate tendency for making his presence more known than I wish, and I am not in the mood to tolerate interruptions."

"Yes, my lord."

Lady Lestrange left the library, and Riddle sat at his escritoire. Hermione's knees were beginning to ache from crouching, and the thick dust was tickling her nose. She might sneeze... She flared and unflared her nostrils and surreptitiously pressed on her nose to quell the urge to sneeze. If Riddle discovered she had been listening in, she knew for certain that the consequences would be dire...Particularly since he seemed quite keen on keeping her ignorant of this meeting's existence or its purpose. Chills erupted along her skin as she considered the implications of all that she had learned so far this morning.

She _had_ to find a way to listen in on that meeting, without risking any discovery.

And, fortunately or not, the idea came to her almost immediately. They had recently done a lesson on a forbidden potion: the Polyjuice Potion.

There was a bit of Polyjuice Potion remaining, and she knew exactly how she would use it.

 


End file.
